


Tethered: A Nicky and Joe Origin Story

by soothe_the_beast



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Characters meeting, Crusades, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Discussions of sexuality, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Immortals, M/M, Meeting, Minor Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Mutual Pining, Origin Story, Slow Burn, This is a love story, True Love, backstories, kaysanova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 42,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soothe_the_beast/pseuds/soothe_the_beast
Summary: Yusuf and Nicolò: enemies to allies, allies to friends, friends to soulmates, to all and more.This is an origin story of Joe and Nicky from their first encounter (first kill) to the events that brought them together and the events that led them to love. Lots of philosophical discussions, mutual pining, and angst. Not to give too much away, but this story accounts for their childhoods, what led them to the crusades, thoughts on sexuality, Nicky's origins as a sniper, Joe's history with his necklace, and meeting Andy and Quynh, among other things.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 176
Kudos: 533





	1. First

**Author's Note:**

> I had a really fun time writing this. My hope is you get as much out of reading it!
> 
> I did a lot of reading to make this fic as historically accurate and culturally competent as I could. I am certain there are still things that won’t work.
> 
> I’ve used certain terms I know are not correct. The idea is that these two don’t know each other yet, and they are making incorrect assumptions about one another. I welcome any feedback, but please trust my intentions are well-meant. 
> 
> Also it’s been a very long time since I‘ve share any stories I’ve written. I am incredibly rusty, but these two have inspired me so much. I had to get this story written down. There’s probably not a whole lot new I can add to what has already been done, but I still wanted to do it. Thanks.

The first time Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn Al Kaysani, called al-Tayyib came back to life, he didn’t clearly remember what had happened to him. Weeks would go by before memories would start to reveal themselves. As the days passed, his dreams would slowly become peppered with visions. A bolt from a crossbow landing in his left shoulder. A Frank invader fast approaching. Two women swimming. Swinging his sabre at the foreign man, who stayed the blow with his shield. One of the women laughing while the other splashed her. The Frank sitting with his head bowed in his hands. The women sharing a meal. Lunging toward the man with his sabre while the man did the same with a dagger. There was pain. The Frank stands in an expanse of bodies, with a blank expression. There was blood. The Frank stares lifelessly back at him as wakefulness slowly faded away. A dagger was piercing his heart. The Frank lifts his dampened, green eyes to the starry sky. 

No, he didn’t remember any of that when he’d first come to. It all came later. That first time, he was spared the bewilderment for the most part. He simply opened his eyes in the dead of night and found himself surrounded by bodies. Mostly Fatimid soldiers, but some European crusaders. And some women… some children. 

He sat up slowly in the darkness. A small group of invaders were gathering bodies one by one and dragging them to a massive bonfire some two hundred meters off. He was outside the walls of Jerusalem. The invader army had managed to seize it. There had been a battle. It didn’t go well. The Fatimid garrison, however many had survived, was gone. He was alone, and he was in danger of being found very soon. While the invaders made their way back toward his location, he had few seconds to map out how to move forward. 

He was on the south wall. The city had been attacked from both sides, but he was caught up in the action to the south. He looked to the east, where the fire raged. He looked to the west, into nothingness. He couldn’t stay where he was, that much was certain. As quietly as he could, he crawled though the bodies, trying not to look directly into any of the faces, nor react to the overwhelming stench of death. When he was sure he was in the cover of darkness, he brought himself to his feet and walked, hoping without much reason that he could somehow catch up to what was left of the garrison if he just continued to do so. As the light of the July morning sun crept up from behind him, he came across a horse, who seemed to have abandoned its Christian master and escaped the battle unscathed. He gently entreated the beast, who allowed him to mount, and he continued to ride west until the Fatimids were indeed found in Ascalon. 

It was when he’d finally had time to rest, that was when the memories began. Were they even memories? Some seemed to be. Visions of what happened in the battle. The duel. The injury. But the rest? He didn’t know what much of it meant. He didn’t know who the women were. The man was clear. It was the infidel who had tried to kill him, tried his best and failed. 

_How though?_

Over the coming weeks, the memories, those visions he was sure were just that, would grow clearer and clearer, and it became harder to deny he’d been mortally wounded. And he’d survived, somehow. Not just that, but he didn’t seem to have any residual injury at all. How can a man clearly remember being driven through the heart with a blade, and have no scar to speak of?

 _No scar?_ How is the heart still pumping at all?

He kept very much to himself those next few weeks, as the dreams increased in lucidity, and he began to wonder that he was slowly but surely losing his mind.

For Nicolò di Genova, the panic of what happened was much more instantaneous. And much more persistent. And much more menacing. 

He’d come to and immediately clutched at his neck, gasping for air. The vision of the Saracen man he’d battled was seared in his brain. He had stared into the man’s cold, dark eyes while his own body was bleeding out. An arm reached around his own and dragged him towards the wall. He didn’t remember much more after that, but he knew well enough what happened. He had died. He had recited in his mind during those last few seconds the prayer to the Holy Mother. Had privately asked one more final forgiveness from the Father and prepared himself for judgement. 

Instead of pearly gates, nor the more likely fire and brimstone he had reasonably feared, he’d woken up laid out on a cot under a tented canopy inside the walls of Jerusalem. He was not alone. Many other crusader bodies were lined up nearby, and they weren’t waking like he was. These men were dead. He felt a lump growing in his throat at the idea that it was no mistake he was placed here among these unfortunate men. He quickly stood and distanced himself from the makeshift morgue. As he walked towards the city center his eyes looked out over the sea of bodies, women and children, Muslim and Jewish. But they registered only the vision he was remembering, the eyes of his enemy. That soulless, abyss of black. At least he’d killed his would-be slayer. No, that wasn’t completely true. He’d killed the man who killed him too. Nicolò just… somehow returned. 

As he walked through the city, he cautiously gazed down upon the carnage at his feet. Unspeakable horrors had taken place here. He’d watched. He’d participated. He’d helped. He looked up to his left at the synagogue, the place he’d ushered countless women and children and elderly. He was so naïve. Or was he? Had he really thought they were herding them here to protect them?Was he truly shocked to find the building burned to the ground? 

He absentmindedly rubbed the spot where his neck had been struck. The memory of the duel flashed in his mind, but there was no wound to support it. 

It was not as though there wasn’t a precedent for this in his Faith. The Christ had risen after three days. Was it possible this was some kind of miracle from God? His eyes arrested on a young girl… no more than six, laid out on the ground, holding a small doll. She could have been sleeping except for the pallor of her skin and the large pool of crimson pillowing her head. 

No. He could not fathom that any man who marched with an army capable of such malevolence could ever be measured up to the Son of God. This was no miracle. This was Hell.

“Nicolò.”

He was roused from his stupor by a fellow crusader. Nicolò knew the man’s name. They had trained together, had gone through seminary together. But no name was coming just then. His mind was too clouded. 

“You’re alive!” The man exclaimed, “but I saw you wounded. You were an instant from death.”

Pieces were coming together. This was the man who had dragged him into the city, no doubt to give him a proper funeral, anointing and all. 

“No, the blood was not mine,” he found himself lying immediately, not quite sure where the impulse nor ingenuity were coming from. He was a creature of pure instinct in that moment. 

“The wind was knocked out of me; it was difficult to breathe. But the blood you saw belonged to my foe.”

The crusader looked dubious, as if questioning his own memory. This man had watched the blood empty from Nicolò’s body, and Nicolò was sure of it. But nothing seemed more imperative in that moment than somehow convincing him his eyes had played tricks on him. 

After a long, uncomfortable pause, the man seemed to decide this explanation would ultimately cause them both less discomfort, nodded and walked away. 

It was the first outright lie Nicolò could remember telling since boyhood. He hadn’t been very good at it back then, and quit when he joined the clergy. It wasn’t as hard as he remembered, and that fact brought him no comfort. 

Sleep wasn’t easy to come by that night. Or rather, it wasn’t easy to keep hold of. He had found an empty alcove in the city to be alone with his thoughts. He would drift off only to be woken suddenly by the feeling of hot metal slicing through his neck, and the vision of those cold black eyes. 

He had not survived at all. This was surely Hell. And Nicolò feared he had come face to face with the Devil himself. 


	2. Ascalon

The second time Yusuf came back to life, he was absolutely sure what had happened and remembered every last detail. He had not been asleep. Indeed, he was one of few members of the garrison placed on guard that evening. Both men to his immediate left and right had succumbed to the dead quiet that evening had offered, a quiet Yusuf found ominous. 

He stayed awake. 

It had been nearly a month since they’d lost the battle at Jerusalem. Nearly a month since the dreams began. At this point, he was unable to fall asleep without seeing either of the two women, or the fair-haired man who had… who had killed him. It was enough to make him mean never to fall asleep again, which was, in theory, fortunately timed, as he was responsible for keeping watch that night. The problem was all the previous nights that he’d willed himself not to sleep, compounded by all the times he’d been conquered by his weariness only to be jerked back awake by his visions. He was utterly exhausted.   
  
He gazed out across the expanse of land, illuminated slightly by the half moon, thinking of home. It had been several years since he last set foot in Mahdia. He had hoped when he arrived in Jerusalem that defending the city from invaders might grant him enough honor, and means, to return. It could not have been what his mother intended when she secretly directed him to her cousin’s home in Cairo without her husband’s knowledge. But Yusuf had learned the hard way that an unrenowned artist faired little better in Cairo than he would in Alexandria, and following his kin to join al-Dawla in Jerusalem was the best of his limited options. 

It wasn’t so bad, this place. It wasn’t home, but then again neither was Cairo. Neither was Alexandria. Neither was Jerusalem. Where was he now? Oh yes, Ascalon. Ascalon felt a lot like Jerusalem. Same horrid stench of sweaty men taking one too many days away from the baths. Same formations night after night. He listened to the same men snoring (the same men who should be helping to keep watch). Not much was likely to happen tonight though, that was what the admiral had said.

The admiral was wrong.

When the skirmish began, it took him a beat to understand what was going on. But the unmistakable sound of metal to metal grew louder and louder to his right. An ambush was making its way towards him. He barely had time to wake the soldier to his left before a Christian crusader was upon the man to his right. Yusuf managed to dodge the attack, only to turn and come face to face with another soldier of the enemy. Instinct kicked in as he raised his sabre up to meet a shield. Again, a dagger swung through the air at him. Blows were exchanged for several minutes before he could make sense of anything in front of him. This particular invader, though he didn’t seem to have a sword, was somehow impressively relentless and capable. Yusuf knew he had the upper hand though, with the more formidable weapon. He drew his sabre back to take a mighty swing, but he was knocked back from a savage punch to the nose. Compulsively he raised his left hand to his face. 

A voice was shouting at him from above. It spoke in a language Yusuf didn’t recognize. Blinking through the pain he looked up to the face of his assailant. It was dark, and his vision was clouded from the sweat, blood, and tears in his eyes, but there was no mistaking it. He was looking up at the same enemy soldier he had met in Jerusalem. The fair-haired Frank he’d been dreaming about. The man he was certain he’d killed. 

Nicolò, standing over him and aiming his dagger at his enemy’s neck, repeated his question, this time in Sabir, the common trade language, and this time saw recognition in the man’s eyes. 

“What did you do to me?” 

If Yusuf had expected an infidel to speak to him, this question might have been the last thing he’d expected to hear. Before hesitation multiplied his confusion and put him further off guard, he swung his sabre in his right hand, slicing the fair-haired man across the belly. 

Like a stone, Nicolò dropped to his knees and stared into the dark, unfeeling eyes of his twice-slayer. 

“I killed you,” the man answered in Sabir, rising up to his feet. 

Yusuf gazed fixedly down at his foe, who was now prone on the ground, bleeding out, gasping for air. In an instant, the dagger had been swung and Yusuf felt it strike the front of his ankles, effectively opening major vessels in each leg. He dropped back down to the ground and attempted to scuttle back on his seat. 

“I killed you too,” answered the dying crusader with his last guttural breath. 

Yusuf, watched the blood continue to pool from beneath the infidel invader, painfully aware of the mirrored image playing out at his own feet. Wincing, he tried to crawl away, certain he couldn’t stand, and discovered the muscles in his legs had simply given up. He could feel his mind starting to follow suit, sleep deprived as it was. It could all just fade away if he gave in. The temptation was weighty, he thought. And then, once again, he thought no more. 


	3. Duel

Nicolò di Genova had already died twice now. Had already died twice and arisen twice. And yet still, as his eyes opened and he blinked through the dust in the early morning sun, he was overcome with dread at the knowledge that he was once again among the living. 

_Among the dead, though._ That was more accurate. 

With effort he sat himself up, pushing the corpse of a fallen crusader off his chest, and extricated his feet from beneath another, this man a Saracen. Nicolò glanced around at his surroundings. There was nothing but death in every direction. Nothing…except for the figure of an enemy soldier standing off in the distance, gazing away from him. Nicolò could not see his face, but he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was the face which had haunted his dreams of late.

Nicolò rose to his feet, fueled by hatred and a good deal of fear. With purpose and stealth, he took a few steps towards his unwavering opponent, before drawing his crossbow from his back. He took note of the man casting his eyes to his own surroundings as he mounted his shot into the stock. 

The dark-skinned man turned his head slightly around, sensing a figure moving in the distance behind him. The speed of his turn increased slightly, and he locked eyes with Nicolò from afar. There was an expression on his face that Nicolò took for alarm, readiness. With purpose and precision, Nicolò pressed the trigger, sending a bolt straight to his enemy’s chest. He fell instantly, but death did not come quite so fast. Nicolò approached him slowly. He’d hit his target squarely in the heart. Crouching beside him, he pulled out his dagger and held it under the man’s chin, daring him to survive this one. He was close enough to feel his shallow breath. Close enough to see the subtle difference in color between the black of his dilated pupils and the deep carob of his irises. 

It was then that time inexplicably slowed, as he felt a twinge in his side and the feeling of warm liquid dripping to his hip, down his leg. He looked down and saw a similar dagger plunged in his left side, then back into the face of the man who had now mortally wounded him three times. Nicolò couldn’t help but note that the man looked as exhausted as he himself felt. And… possibly afraid? Darkness started to set in.

Yusuf watched the light leave the green eyes of his fair-haired enemy, wincing with the knowledge that his own eyes must surely be dimming too. 

There was nothing.   
  
He woke with a start and jumped to his feet. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but judging from the sun, it wasn’t long. Not nearly as long as the two previous times. Laid on the ground was the stubborn Christian who also just wouldn’t stay dead. There was no reason to think he would stay dead this time. Yusuf would be ready. 

Minutes later, Nicolò’s eyes popped open and he sat up in alarm at the sight of his adversary, who had strapped the two daggers under the strap across his chest, and was holding his sabre at the ready. There wasn’t time to improvise. The blade struck Nicolò’s body sooner than he had even regained his full balance.

Yusuf watched the Christian fall back to the ground and die, for the fourth time by his own hand.

But it wasn’t over, and he knew it. 

Less than a minute passed this time, and when the fair-haired man arose again, he did so with a leap, springing forward at Yusuf and punching him square in the nose with a closed fist, and then kicking the sabre out of his hand, sending it flying through the air and landing several strides away. It gave Nicolò just enough time to reclaim his dagger, but not enough time to gain the upper hand. 

Yusuf drew his own knife. The duel commenced, and it went on. And on. And on. 

They fought for hours. But this time, they were both so driven by rage and bewilderment, neither could manage to dispatch the other. If ever there was a stalemate, this certainly met the definition. 

They had both reached the point of utter exhaustion. Had been there for quite some time in fact. Only as the sun got low and orange, came a moment of sheer luck, good luck for Nicolò at first, for Yusuf next, but more accurately good luck for them both because it finally brought about a conclusion to this hours-long engagement. They had made their way to a particularly rocky patch of ground over the course of the day. Yusuf stumbled with the changing surface and Nicolò took advantage of the moment, striking him across the belly. 

Anger and chagrin registered on Yusuf’s face, followed quickly by determination. He grabbed Nicolò by his shoulders, and spun him around to the ground, falling down on top of him. Nicolò felt his head strike against the rocks and was certain his skull had cracked open. This one might take him a beat to recover from…

Yusuf rolled to his back and drew the man’s dagger from his abdomen. He used it to assist him to his feet but fell back to his knees. He was mortally wounded… again. _Am I doomed to kill and be killed by this man for the rest of my existence, however long that may be?_

Darkness.

_No._

That was his first waking thought only moments later. He got to his feet and took stock of his vital organs. All safely enclosed behind unscathed, unscarred skin. Enough was enough. He was done with this Christian. At least for today.

Nicolò woke in darkness. There was no sign of his foe. Just rocks and dust and his weapons lying at his feet, and a few thousand dead soldiers some distance away. This was Ascalon. He would travel northeast to return to Jerusalem. 

A few miles south of him, Yusuf had the sneaking, infuriating suspicion that he wasn’t yet done with this invader for good.


	4. Made

_The taller woman took a gentle step towards the other, placing her hand to her cheek. Whatever uncertainty was there a moment ago was gone now. Both women mounted horses. A man bathed along the shore of the sea. The smaller woman aimed an arrow at a large bird in the sky. The man was bowing with his hands on his knees, sun setting over the water to his right. The women enjoyed their meal together. The man walked along the shore._

“Nicolò di Genova!”

Nicolò woke with a start, sitting upright. 

“Nicolò di Genova?”

Blinking, Nicolò looked upward to the face of the Count of Saint Pol addressing him. With haste, and with effort, he brought himself to his feet, and answered in the Lingua Franca “I am Nicolò, sir.”

“I hear you are the man to have returned a day late from Ascalon on foot, miraculously survived.” 

Next to the Count stood Nicolò’s fellow countryman, the man who had dragged his dead body across the walls of Jerusalem. He gave Nicolò an accusing stare, and Nicolò directed his attention away, back to the Count. 

“God and good fortune were with me, Your Excellency.”

“Yes, it would seem so,” the Count answered. “I am hoping that same fortune will grace you again. You see, I am vassal to the Count of Boulougne, who had gifted me with his very precious longsword mere weeks ago. The sword, tragically was lost in the skirmish and I need a Knight with your good fortune who knows the landscape well to retrieve it for me, before my liege learns of its disappearance.” 

Nicolò stared fixedly at the Count. He seemed to have a very different definition of tragic than Nicolò. He was uncertain why he was being tasked with this assignment, but confident in what little choice he had to decline. 

“Oresto will accompany you.” 

Nicolò finally shifted his gaze back to his fellow clergyman. The man looked as pleased as Nicolò felt to be going out on this errand. 

Minutes later, Nicolò had gathered his effects and met Oresto at the stables. As infantrymen, neither of the two were proficient equestrians, but enough of the cavalry had fallen over recent months, and the Count seemed to want this job carried out as quickly as possible, so he made the arrangements himself. 

A short while later, the two men were riding southwest along the road that would lead back to Ascalon. Neither man spoke for quite some time, which suited Nicolò just fine. It was Oresto who finally broke the silence.

“I saw you die again,” he spoke bluntly, in their native tongue.   
  
Nicolò turned to his consort, his face set without expression. “I am not dead, you saw no such thing.”

“I have seen it twice now,” Oresto spat back. “A month ago in Jerusalem, you were sliced across the neck. I saw all the blood in your body empty onto the ground. And then… three nights ago in Ascalon you were gored in the spleen. And now here you are, perfectly healthy not a bruise, not a scratch.”

“You mistake me for someone else, Oresto.”

“I mistake you for a man of God, Nicolò.” The accusing tone had turned menacing. “You have made dealings with demons. With the Devil himself!”

“Oresto,” Nicolò tried softening his own tone. “Calm yourself. You don’t know what you are saying. You must drink some water.”

For a moment, Oresto looked nearly placated, or that he wished to be, at least. Nicolò knew what these thoughts must be doing to him. They were doing triple to Nicolò. He was almost jealous of Oresto, at the possibility that Nicolò could once again convince him he had imagined what he saw. Nicolò could never be convinced. His life would never be the same. Had he been touched by demons out here?

Oresto calmed and procured his canteen. Nicolò sighed, relieved.

“This God-forsaken war will drive us all mad,” he muttered, almost to himself. But Oresto heard. 

“God-forsaken? You question the divine mission to spread the good news?”

“I question whether pillaging is the way to spread that news. Whether killing the innocent is the true will of God.”

“You are naïve, Nicolò.” 

Nicolò‘s eyes bore into the other man. He wished that were true. 

“There is no such thing as an innocent Saracen. They should all die,” Oresto declared with an arrogant finality that turned Nicolò’s stomach. 

“Even the children?” He asked quietly.

“Especially the children.”

Nicolò glared at his riding mate. What sort of man was this? Nicolò may have been cursed with an unholy magic, may have been touched by demons, but he couldn’t fathom that of the two of them, Oresto was not spewing the more evil. In fact, of the two sides of this “Holy” war, it was becoming clearer and clearer to him which army was more in the wrong. 

Oresto, who seemed to have lost interest in the conversation, fixed his gaze ahead of them. “Look there.”

Nicolò followed his line of sight, spotting a figure off in the distance. It appeared to be a man making his way north along the road. 

“There’s a filthy Saracen now.” Oresto kicked his horse to accelerate. Nicolò followed along, keeping a beat behind. A feeling in his gut told him he knew who the Saracen would be. It had been that sort of day.

As the gap closed between Oresto and Nicolò’s mysterious undying adversary, Nicolò could see that the man had seen better days. His clothes were tattered and his hair was unkempted beneath his headdress. He looked as though he hadn’t stopped these few days, hadn’t found shelter, had had little for food. 

Oresto dismounted his horse, and Nicolò hung back a few meters. Oresto drew a sword, which Nicolò was surprised to learn he had at all. He must have taken it from a fallen crusader. Neither he, nor Nicolò were trained in sword combat, nor did they have enough wealth to own one. He watched as Oresto walked toward the traveller, sabre already in hand. It shouldn’t have been a fair fight, and it wasn’t, but not in the way Nicolò expected. His experience told him this man should have bested Oresto and his lack of skill with a sword within seconds, but days alone on this barren road seemed to have depleted the spirit Nicolò knew him to possess. The skirmish was swift, and even though Oresto’s swordplay was crude and almost embarrassing to watch, he bested the lone man in less than a minute. His counterpart was defeated. For the moment.

As Oresto sheathed the sword and wiped his brow, Nicolò remained on his horse and waited, keeping his eyes fixed on his battle-mate. It didn’t take long, a minute, perhaps seconds more. The fallen man began to stir, and had risen halfway to his feet before Oresto took note of it. 

Something about being killed again seemed to ignite a fervor in the man that Nicolò recognized, almost admired. Oresto was off guard, but he managed to unsheathe his sword fast enough to stay this enemy’s attempted deadly blow. As the two engaged in battle, Nicolò finally dismounted his horse, and pulled his crossbow into his hands. 

He took his time loading the bolt and raising it up to aim. He watched the skirmish from behind the sight bridge for several more seconds. He didn’t fire until he was certain one bolt would do the job. He pressed the trigger. The bolt pierced the back of his target’s skull. The Arab man gaped at him, his eyes overcome with shock. Nicolò lowered the crossbow and took a few tentative steps closer as Oresto’s body collapse to the ground. 

The two enemies stood little more than an arm’s distance from each other, staring. It was the longest they had gone in this close a proximity without attempting to kill one another.

The moment was short-lived. Yusuf quickly raised his sabre and jabbed it into the infidel’s neck. Again. 


	5. Truce

Yusuf wasted no time. He swiftly removed his kufiya and used it to bind Nicolò’s hands together behind his back. He dragged Nicolò’s lifeless body to a nearby tree and used the reins from one of the horses to tether him there. A quick search through Oresto’s pack procured him some dates and a canteen half-full of water. After quenching his thirst, Yusuf ate a handful of the dates, and then offered a few to the horses. A gentle entreaty in the hopes that they might stick around. 

The Frank began to stir. Yusuf gave a last stroke on the snout of the dead man’s horse, and walked purposefully back toward the man. He took a seat on the ground directly opposite him, watching him carefully as his stirring turned to wiggling turned to struggling. The infidel muttered something foreign under his breath and then as his eyes focused back into life, they met his own. Nicolò stopped struggling. 

_“What you do?”_ he attempted to ask Yusuf’s intentions in what little of the man’s language he could muster. 

_“You speak Arabic?”_ Yusuf asked curiously, raising his eyebrows in mild amusement. It was broken, and very heavily accented. Not Frankish, he thought. 

_“Little,”_ was Nicolò’s response. 

_“How much is a little?”_ Several moments passed. Nicolò just stared at him. 

“Fine,” Yusuf answered this time in Sabir, as it was clear Arabic would not get them very far. He glanced over his shoulder briefly at the other invader’s body, which he’d dragged a good distance away. When he looked back, he saw that Nicolò had followed his gaze. “He is quite dead. A most unfortunate miss for you.”

“I do not miss.” Nicolò replied, in a cocksure tone, also in Sabir, also heavily accented. He kept his eyes on the dead body another beat before he shot them straight at his captor. 

“You kill your friend on purpose?” Yusuf asked with a curious quirk of the head. 

“He was not my friend.” Nicolò muttered bitterly. 

Yusuf smirked a little before he gave his response, “Neither am I.” 

“I killed you also,” Nicolò retorted without missing a beat. 

“You have tried… many times,” the smirk faded slightly, “but not today.”

Nicolò held the other man’s gaze, but said nothing. Yusuf considered him for an extended moment. He counted four times this man had killed him. It gave him no small satisfaction to know that he’d himself killed his foe six times. The score was in his favor. Why had this invader come to his rescue today? Why had he not tried to kill him today?

It was starting to seem futile, he agreed. But then what should that mean for them? Should they just agree to live and let live? This was a man who had overrun the lands of thousands of peaceful Muslims. Killed many, to be sure. He couldn’t just let him go and return to his army where he would surely do more evil. 

Then again… did this man even intend to return? What was the meaning behind his sudden assistance moments ago? Was it only about killing the other infidel? Or was it about helping him? Or was it a little bit of both? He considered the man for another moment before coming to his decision.   
  
“I’m going to untie you,” he informed his captive, getting to his feet and wiping his hands. He approached the invader slowly, who kept his eyes glued to him like a hawk. 

When his hands were free, Nicolò continued to stay put for a beat. There was very little danger of either of them doing the other permanent damage, so his readiness didn’t seem to be imperative at the moment. The dark-eyed man stood over him a moment before offering him a hand up. Nicolò took it and pulled himself to his feet. 

Yusuf turned back toward the horses and knelt down to the ground where lay a folded traveling cloak. He unwrapped it, revealing the sword Oresto had appropriated, as well as Nicolò’s dagger and crossbow. He took the dagger and stood back up, examining it in appraisal while Nicolò watched. Yusuf approached the Christian and extended the dagger to him, blade pointed at the sky, pommel slightly tilted to Nicolò. 

Nicolò placed his hand on the grip, and Yusuf released it. He took a quick swing at Yusuf, slashing him superficially across his upper arm. Yusuf took one long, quick step back and drew his sabre in one fluid motion. He then lunged threateningly at the fair-haired man.

Nicolò took a step back as well and held up his left hand in truce, but keeping his dagger at the ready. When he was certain Yusuf wasn’t going to strike, he held up one finger and shifted his eyes at the gash in the man’s arm. 

Yusuf followed Nicolò’s gaze and the two watched as his wound closed in mere seconds. Nicolò lowered his dagger slightly and brought his left hand up to the blade. He cut across his palm and then held his hand aloft in presentation to the other man. When his wound also healed he met his rival’s eyes again.   
  
Yusuf stared back, completely unimpressed. After a beat he nodded, “Are you finished?”

Nicolò stood lamely on the spot, feeling slightly foolish. He flexed and opened his fist a few times, still feeling the pain from the gash, and realizing for the first time how much pain he has endured over the past month, what with violently dying over and over. It occurred to him how much pain the other man had probably experienced. 

Yusuf, once again all business had returned to the horses and was leading them to the tree so he could secure them to it. 

“We should make camp,” he said plainly as he started to gather kindling. 

Nicolò blinked, standing awkwardly. _We? Camp? WHAT?_ Those were his thoughts. 

But when he spoke, he simply asked, “Here?”

“The sun is setting,” Yusuf explained patiently. “It will be dark sooner than it seems. It will be cold. And there will be predators. We must build a fire.” 

He walked off a little ways and carried on looking for larger pieces of tinder. Nicolò stole a glance over his shoulder, speculating what kind of predators the man referred to. He finally sheathed his dagger close to his chest and started to help him in his search for wood. 

While they worked, each man silently mused to himself on the sudden, unspoken but outright agreement that they would be sticking together, working together, for the time being. Nicolò reflected that he didn’t have much other choice, logical or moral. He knew he couldn’t return to the Roman army. Oresto’s reaction to what was happening to him would not be unique, and he didn’t know how long he’d be able to keep it a secret. Plus, he couldn’t deny that he was seeing the Church for something he no longer recognized. Disingenuous and hypocritical at best, sinister at worse. He felt deceived. At least he knew what to expect from his enemy. Or rather, even if he didn’t know quite what to expect, he was fairly certain the man would not break his heart. 

Yusuf knew the days ahead would be trying. He would have to keep continuously on guard with this one. He could not be trusted. But Yusuf knew two things: four hands were better than two, and he did not wish to waste any more time attempting what seemed to be impossible. The man could not be killed. For the second time that day, the word futile crossed his mind.

There was also something to be said for the unrest in his heart and mind over what was happening to him. Whatever, and whoever this man was, these unnatural things were somehow happening to him too, and he seemed to be just as terrified by them as Yusuf, if not more so. And there was a peculiar comfort in that.

A short while later, Yusuf had gotten a fire lit and sat by it, slowly cultivating a strong base. Nicolò carried an armful of broken branches and set them down next to him. Yusuf nodded. He stood and brushed the dirt from his hands. 

“You will tend to this. There is something I must do.” He walked away without further explanation. Nicolò watched intermittently out of the corners of his eyes, from both prudence and curiosity. As he fed the fire, he saw the other man off in the distance. He kneeled down to the ground and Nicolò saw his lips move gently. What he had said, Nicolò could not hear, and he doubted very much it would have been words he’d comprehend. He gently placed his hands on the ground, lifted them, clapped them together once and, to Nicolò’s astonishment, began to rub his entire face with dust, and then rubbed his hands together. 

When the other man started to bow, it was clear to Nicolò this was a religious ritual, and he looked away quickly, feeling all of a sudden that he was ogling at something intimate. He placed another branch in the fire. A short while later, his new companion made his way back to the makeshift camp stopping first by the horses and procuring something from Oresto’s pack. 

He sat down opposite Nicolò, who noted he was chewing on something. They locked eyes and the other man reached around the side of the fire, offering him Oresto’s dates. Nicolò stared back at him.

“They’re very flavorful.” Yusuf stretched his arm out a bit further. 

Nicolò conceded his cold defiance and reached out, accepting the food. 

“You are well-versed in the trade language,” he said before hastily pushing three dates into his mouth. 

“I was raised in a trade city. Mahdia,” Yusuf explained, skillfully keeping the defensiveness out of his tone. “Many people come in and out. I am well-versed in many languages.”

“You are Mauri?” Nicolò asked curiously. Yusuf’s eyebrows dropped significantly. 

“Mahgrebi,” he corrected firmly. He asked his next question knowing full well it would communicate the significance of the Christian’s mistake, and did so with a satisfied smirk. “You are Frank?”

Nicolò held his gaze, but he did not respond right away. The intent of the question was taken clearly. It was the second time in a very short while he’d felt thoroughly put in his place. He looked down at his hands and nodded. He’d certainly blindly marched into this unexpected place in solidarity and fidelity with the Church. Rightly so, he could understand how broad a brush Europeans would be painted in the context of these actions, actions he certainly willingly took part in. 

He wasn’t quite sure why, perhaps to cling to the small part of him that assured him who he was, he answered very quietly, “I am from Genoa.”

Yusuf was surprised to find himself stirred by the hint of humanity his enemy showed in that moment. Neither man spoke for a very long time. It was the Christian who finally who broke the silence. 

“I dreamed you.” He spoke in the same quiet tone as he had when he last spoke. 

Yusuf nodded. He looked up at him, but the fair man stared only at the fire.

”Yes,” he said. “I have dreamed you too.”

Nicolò’s brow grew heavier. 

“I thought it was because you had attacked me,” he explained, “tried to kill me… killed me.”

He shook his head as though it pained him to try and comprehend. 

“I feared… you did this to me. I thought you were the Devil.” He looked up and finally met the other man’s eyes. He saw for the first time the crinkles around the edges, how they made him look as though he was smiling, even when we wasn’t. They were kind eyes. “You are not the Devil.”

Yusuf shook his head slowly, “No. Are you?”

“Most days no.” Nicolò smirked ironically. “I am just a man... I think.”

The Mahgrebi man offered a slight quirk of his lips and eyes. A true smile. “I am called Al-Tayyib.” 

The Genoese man nodded. “Nicolò.”


	6. Even

That evening, Nicolò took first watch. His new companion had offered, but in truth Nicolò’s mind was so restless, he did not think sleep would come anyway. Al-Tayyib was not long for the world once the sun had gone down. 

As they had frequently of late, his thoughts raced. He was decidedly on the run, with a fighter of the enemy. _How scandalous,_ he mused. If the people back home could only see him now. 

He didn’t want them to though. What would they say? What would they think? They would shun him. They would jail him. They might very well try to execute him. And when they failed, then what? He shivered as a gust of wind glided over him. He had never felt so alone in his entire life.

He wasn’t alone though. 

Nicolò cast a glance at his new companion across the fire. He lay on his side, facing the flames. His face was weary even in sleep. They had been at war for years. It would be a difficult expression to unlearn, Nicolò thought. And, why should he unlearn it? Here he was, asleep in the middle of nowhere, with only his enemy to keep him safe. It was not exactly a sanctuary. Such a strange turn of events brought him here to be in this place, with this man. Nicolò felt his face matching al-Tayyib’s expression too. 

Still, it was a nice face, he thought. Kind, he’d decided. Not the face of a devil. Al-Tayyib, like Nicolò was just a man. They were both just men who could not die. At least it seemed they would not die easily. He wondered how much they could truly endure and still come back, as his fingers danced on the grip of the dagger on his chest. Before he realized he’d gripped it, the weapon was unsheathed and in his hand. Curiously, he ran the fingers of his left hand lightly across the edge, too light to cut him. He pressed them down a little harder. Blood spilled quickly from his fingertips, but within seconds, it seemed to stop. Nicolò rubbed his fingers together to reveal completely healed skin. 

Once again, he ran his hand across the blade, this time much more firmly. A good deal more blood spilled this time, enough to make him grimace, but a short time later the bleeding stopped and he was once again whole. His next thought gave him pause. If he were to cut off a finger completely, what then? He glanced at al-Tayyib, then up at the sky. He had said to wake him when the moon went down over the mountain to the East. It was nearly gone. His turn was almost over.

Slowly, he placed his left hand down on the ground in front of him and hovered his dagger over his hand. The blade was not all that sharp. He snuck a glance at al-Tayyib’s sabre. That would certainly be more effective but…

It would only last a few seconds. Maybe minutes.

He hoped. 

Yusuf woke suddenly to the sound of a menacing but quick howl followed by pitiful moans. He was disoriented and partially blind from sleep, but was on his feet, sabre drawn a few moments later. He blanched at the sight of Nicolò on the ground, left hand in front of him pooled in blood, his index finger completely severed. 

“ _Ayyooh, majnun_ ,” he exclaimed. “What is in your head?” 

He rushed to the man’s side, gathering the hem of his gandora and wrapping Nicolò’s hand.

“You are a mad man,” he insisted.

Nicolò nodded his agreement, “On occasion.”

He attempted to pull his hand away from al-Tayyib who kept a tight hold under the cloth. 

“Wait,” Nicolò protested. He could still feel a pronounced amount of pain in his hand, but he noted it seemed to lessen slightly, and was becoming more localized to his finger, rather than the diffuse throbbing that cast throughout his arm just moments ago. “Let me see it.”

Yusuf glared at the Christian man, but reluctantly pulled his clothing off of his hand. Miraculously, and yet unsurprisingly, the finger had reattached. Nicolò held up his hand and flexed his fist a few times. They both stared, transfixed. 

“How?” Nicolò asked quietly.

“Why?” Yusuf adjected. They locked eyes. Neither said anything more. Neither had any answers. They were quiet in their thoughts for a long while, but they each felt a strange comfort in knowing they were not alone in them. It was Yusuf who finally broke the silence. 

“The moon is gone,” he said. “You sleep now.” 

Nicolò didn’t protest. The trauma of severing his own finger seemed to have wiped his energy just enough that sleep didn’t feel as impossible as it had before. He fluttered his undamaged finger once more before fixing himself in a comfortable position and closed his eyes. 

Yusuf sat with his head resting in his hand a moment. _Ya Allāh,_ he thought. That was not exactly a welcome way to be woken. What had he gotten himself into? He cast a glance at the sleeping invader. 

“ _Majnun_ ,” he repeated under his breath. _Lunatic_.

He looked up at the sky. The moon was indeed gone. It had gone dark. All that could be seen now was the fire, and Nicolò illuminated slightly behind it. He rubbed his head. It seemed he could still definitely have headaches. And he still felt hunger. The typical sufferings of life didn’t seem to be sparing him at all. 

It was only death that eluded them. Death and mutilation, as Nicolò had just proved. 

He shook his head, casting out the thoughts he’d been avoiding all these long weeks. How? Yes, it was a good question, Nicolò had broached, but Yusuf was more tormented with why? It was not as though he wanted to die. He was grateful still to be walking the Earth. But a man does not pledge his life to fight in a war without some reasonable expectation that he may not come out of it alive. Yusuf had taken tally of his deeds in this life. He felt he had been a good man, had been devout, had observed all acts and obligations expected in his faith.

If he were a less confident man, he’d have considered Barzakh, the barrier between life and the hereafter, but he was not timorous and never had been. He knew himself, and he knew his life. He was not being punished for it; he was simply still living it. And now he was charged, for some inexplicable reason, with the safety of this crazed European as well. 

His headache worsened. 

As the sun peeked out over the skyline, Yusuf breathed out a sigh. He could remember the days in his childhood home, rising with the sun to help his father deliver the previous day’s catch to the market. It was his favorite time of day. 

Feeling it might be a safe time to complete his prayers, he stood. But as he did, he could see in the distance an ominous bundle of shapeless silhouettes creeping over the horizon as well. As the seconds passed, they formed into more clear outlines of men on horses. Yusuf did not know, but whoever they were, caliphate, crusader, or bandits, they would likely come with ill will for one of them, he or Nicolò, if not both. It would be wise for them to move on quickly and avoid the encounter all together if possible.

“Nicolò,” he spoke in a forceful hush as he stepped on the dying embers in the fire. He knelt by his companion and shook him lightly on the shoulder. “Nicolò wake.”

The hairs on Yusuf’s arms stood erect and the blood crashed in his ears in alarm and regret as he was briefly, subconsciously aware of every muscle in Nicolò’s arm suddenly tensing up. The sensation was short lived, because the next instant saw him falling to his back gaping up at the man who’d just stabbed through the heart… again. 

Nicolò stared down at his new companion in alarm. 

“Tayyib,” he cried. “I am sorry!”

“Stupid Frank,” came the shocked, grunted response.

“I’m sorry!” He repeated more insistently.

Yusuf gasped as a bit of blood seeped from his lips.

“Men are coming,” he warned. “Watch your back, Nicolò.”

Nicolò watched as al-Tayyib stopped breathing and faded away. It would not be long before he returned, he knew, but as Nicolò glanced over his shoulder, he swore under his breath with the knowledge that he would be staving the oncoming hostilities alone, at least at first.

He stood, seizing his cross bow, aiming it at the horizon. But he paused. He had no way of knowing for sure who these men were, that they were even men to be honest. He stared out over the simple sight. He would not miss if he fired just then. But he would not fire. He would be certain of danger first, but would be ready. 

He secured the crossbow behind his back and drew the sword Oresto had been carrying from al-Tayyib’s traveling cloak. He would give them a chance to be honorable, something he had not done before now. 

As they approached, Nicolò could see that they were Arab men, but not soldiers. He increased his hold on the grip of the sword.

“ _Salaam_ ,” he said genially as they approached him. 

There were five of them. The man closest to him sneered a little at Nicolò’s greeting. He had picked it up relatively quickly upon his arrival to Jerusalem, but hadn’t paid enough mind to realize it meant _peace_ , and not _hello_. The dead Fatimid soldier behind him negated that sentiment slightly. 

_Any time, al-Tayyib,_ he thought. That would give them a stir, to be sure. 

Their leader spoke to him. It sounded like a question, but he had no way of knowing what it was or how to answer. The man cracked a sinister smile. He was eyeing Nicolo’s sword, certainly calculating the wealth it would bring him once Nicolò was dead. 

Nicolò raised it to a ready stance. All the men laughed now. The horses started to move one by one until they were circling him in provocation. Nicolò remained still, mostly eyeing the leader as he moved through his line of sight, but not fixating so as to avoid becoming dizzy. 

They circled closer. He felt a blade slash his arm. The taunting was over; the fight had begun. Another blade swiped across his face. Another got him in the back. He turned quickly, this way and that. They were trying to put him off balance. It was working. 

A fourth blade struck him on the side of the neck. It missed his major vessels, but only just. The blood spilling out was still enough to weaken him, putting him at even more a disadvantage than he already was. Any moment he would be dead.

For an ordinary person this would be a devastating thought, the only thought. But Nicolò was not an ordinary person anymore. His thoughts were on what happened after that. When he would come back to life and they’d been robbed of everything they had. Their horses, their weapons, the clothes on their back even. Al-Tayyib would be furious. 

And he was. 

Nicolò sensed just then a man standing beside him. When he turned to him, al-Tayyib was glaring at him, but his stance was ready. The horses circling them had slowed. The men were frightened at what they’d seen. It was the edge they needed. In unison they stepped outward towards the circle and struck each of the nearest man to them in the sides, knocking them off their horses. 

Two fights commenced in the ground, much more equally matched than moments ago, but not equal entirely. Yusuf defeated his opponent first, and turned just in time to engage with two more. The last of the men joined Nicolò’s contender, just as he was finishing him off. Once, Yusuf turned briefly to one of Nicolò’s opponents with a swift kick that knocked him just enough balance for Nicolò to finish him off. Several moments later, the two new allies were standing alone, surrounded by the bodies of their would be executioners.

“You all right?” Yusuf asked Nicolò after a beat to catch his breath.

“Yes,” Nicolò answered through equally labored breaths. “You?”

“No thanks to you.”

Nicolò sighed.

“It was an accident. You startled me.”

Yusuf nodded and smirked slightly. 

“I will remember how easy that is to do,” he chided. 

“You certainly took your time coming back.”

“I wanted to see how you would fare on your own.” _Not too well_ , he thought as he cleaned his sabre on the clothes of one of their attackers. “I suppose this makes us even.”

“Even?” Nicolò asked.

“You have killed me, I have killed you,” Yusuf nodded again. “You have saved me, I have saved you. Even.” 

Nicolò laughed slightly under his breath as Yusuf stood sheathing his blade, and approached their horses, soothing them tenderly. The others had run off promptly during the scuffle. 

Nicolò thought about al-Tayyib’s words for a moment, before realizing… no they were not quite even.

“Almost,” Yusuf heard Nicolò speak from just over his shoulder. He turned to see the Christian man inches from him and felt a blade pierce his belly. He looked down to see Nicolò’s dagger twist into his organs, and then up at his face to catch the man looking satisfied, and somehow apologetic, just before sliding to his knees as a darkness clouded his eyes. 

Moments later he was back on his feet. His hand reached for his sabre, but it was not there for the taking. Nicolò had backed off and was holding his hands in the air in a peace offering. Both his blade and Nicolò’s were on the ground behind him.

“Eh, eh,” he said, to discourage Yusuf’s next instinct to lunge for the man. “You are fine, yes?”

Yusuf glared at him. 

“Six six,” Nicolò explained. “Now we’re even.”

He turned to gather the weapons and his belongings. Yusuf squinted at him dumbfounded. Of course the _majnun_ was keeping score. Nicolò approached him carefully and handed him his sabre. Yusuf glared at him a second longer before taking it back. Bitterly, he sheathed the blade once more. 

“Now what?” He spat at Nicolò. “We go our separate ways? You settled the score and now you go back to your army?”

Nicolò turned to Yusuf sharply but said nothing. He just stared through him for a very long moment, as though the thought had put him in a trance. When he finally spoke, it was quiet, and forlorn.

“I cannot go back.”

He turned again and went about strapping his belongings to his horse. This admission was not what Yusuf expected. He could see the sorrow clear on Nicolò’s face. The man was lost, with nowhere to go. It occurred to him as Nicolò mounted his horse and waited expectantly, that he was waiting for Yusuf’s lead.

“One moment,” Yusuf said, nodding in resignation.

He walked a ways to be somewhat alone, and began his morning prayer. Nicolò said nothing, and waited patiently. A few minutes later, Yusuf returned. He stopped to search the fallen men for food or provisions. They had nothing to give them sustenance, but he pulled a few extra weapons, as well as a silver ring and gold chalice, from their attackers and wrapped them in his cloak. He attached his things to the back of his horse and mounted her as well. He entreated her to walk, and so they went. 

“You are an even worse swordsman than your friend was,” he jibed at Nicolò, who turned to him and chuckled ever so slightly. 


	7. Fast

They travelled South. Nicolò wasn’t entirely sure where they were going, and he didn’t press the matter. He was out of his element. All al-Tayyib had offered in explanation was that anything North (which was the direction he had originally set to) would be dangerously populated with Nicolò’s kind. And if they managed to get beyond that, they must then deal with the Seljuks. So South was al-Tayyib’s decision, and Nicolò did not protest. Yusuf would not have concerned himself if he had. It was not as though he asked Nicolò to join him. It seemed it was just the way it would be. So… Yusuf set his direction toward home. 

They traveled all the following day on a barren road. The dates were gone after they broke the fast that morning, and they didn’t come across any game the entire day. Yusuf stopped to pray a few times throughout the day. Each time Nicolò took it upon himself to scout the land, searching for anything they might be able to eat. Each time he didn’t have any luck. Nicolò was hungry, but he wasn’t running on as many days with scarce food supply as his traveling companion. Al-Tayyib looked as though the few dates they’d shared together represented a significant portion of all the food he’d eaten since they met at Ascalon. 

When they retired their travels for the evening, al-Tayyib disappeared to complete his prayers, and Nicolò went off hunting. He was determined to find food this time, and didn’t intend to return until he had. He was fortunate to find a wild boar, small for its kind, but still more than enough food for two men. He sat quietly, carefully loading a bolt in his crossbow. Still and patient, he waited until the beast was in close enough range and he knew he wouldn’t miss. 

He didn’t. 

Nicolò returned carrying the animal across his shoulders. Yusuf had started a fire. He looked up when Nicolò returned, but did not return the Christian man’s pleased smile. Indeed when Nicolò had commenced butchering the animal, Yusuf brought himself to his feet, gathered his sabre and walked off. Nicolò took no offense. He was preoccupied with the delight of his next meal. He knew they would both be stronger if they ate sooner than later, therefore knew he ought not to take the time to roast the whole hog over a spit. Instead he cut a sizable piece from the beast’s hind quarters, more than enough to feed them both that evening. While it cooked, he carved the rest of the animal into bite-sized strips. If they could keep the fire going through the night, they would have a decent amount of “coppiette” to take with them when their travels continued in the morning. 

He did not realize that al-Tayyib would have none of it. Did not realize that he had gone off to try to find something, anything he could eat. Anything but a boar. Of course the idiot would find a boar, Yusuf thought to himself.

But when he did return a while later, he carried only his sabre, looking irritated and haggard. He collapsed to his seat across the fire from Nicolò, rubbing his hands together to warm them from the fallen night.

“You have fortuitous timing, al-Tayyib,” Nicolò said with a smile. Once again, his companion did not return it. Once again, Nicolò took little notice of that. He carved a generous slice of the leg, plating it on one of the ceramic dishes he and Oresto carried in their packs, and held it out to al-Tayyib, who did not reach back for it.

“You are hungry, yes?” Nicolò knew he had to be. 

“No,” Yusuf answered. “Thank you.”

Nicolò lowered his eyebrows at him in confusion. There was no way he wasn’t feeling the same pang of emptiness Nicolò was feeling. Worse even.

“Eat,” he insisted. “There is much.” 

“No,” Yusuf repeated. This time he turned away from Nicolò slightly. 

“Do you want to starve to death?” Nicolò stared at him, unable to hide the aggravation rising in his tone. 

_“What do you care, stupid Frank?_ ” Yusuf grumbled under his breath in Arabic with a pronounced roll of his eyes. 

“ _Witless mule._ ” Nicolò grumbled back in his own language. He stood and carried the plate to al-Tayyib and held it out directly in front of his face. Appearing startled by this, al-Tayyib waved his hand as if to ward off Nicolò’s offering, effectively sending the plate and meat into the air and then to the ground.

“Why did you do that?” Demanded Nicolò, angrily. “I’m not trying to poison you, you fool.”

There would be no point, he mused. Nicolò took another step forward and in an instant Yusuf was on his feet too, sabre drawn. Nicolò paused for a split second, completely bewildered by this escalation, and quite honestly not in the mood for it. He didn’t bother worrying about weapons, and instead punched him in the face. 

Despite being overcome by hunger and exhaustion, Yusuf maintained his quick reflexes and lunged forward, bringing his sabre up to meet Nicolò’s throat. He stared into the man’s green eyes for a beat.

“We are still doing this?” Nicolò asked in disbelief. 

“Just eat, Nicolò,” al-Tayyib answered wearily. 

The moment stretched on. Neither man took their eyes off the other’s. When Yusuf finally lowered his weapon and Nicolò blinked at him they both let out the breaths they’d been holding. Yusuf waved his hand toward the meal, again inviting his counterpart not to abstain on his account. He turned his back to the man and fixed himself a spot to sleep.

”Wake me when it is my watch.” He spoke into the night. 

Nicolò returned to his seat and fed himself with reticence, keeping his eyes firmly planted on this bewildering man.   
  


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Summer was not departing gently. Nicolò marveled that a place that could be so frigid in the dead of night could be so relentlessly hot in the day. He cast a glance over his shoulder at al-Tayyib who had consistently kept several paces back all day, despite Nicolò’s attempts to stick with him. Eventually, he slowed his horse and dismounted.

Then he turned and walked the horse back, closing the distance between them and his counterpart. The second horse halted as it approached Nicolò. Al-Tayyib, looking barely conscious, did not question the man while he removed the pack from behind him, nor when he secured it to his own horse, nor even when he secured the two horses together. It was only when the Christian man spoke to him that he took in anything at all. 

“Sit back,” he said. 

“What?” 

“Make room for me,” Nicolò instructed him sternly. The horse was without a navigator; she had no idea what al-Tayyib wanted because he was too weak to give her any commands. Nicolò would steer for them both for a little while. When she tired, they would switch to his own horse. 

Yusuf stared down at Nicolò for a beat, but he didn’t argue. He scooted back toward the horse’s rump, and Nicolò mounted the creature in front of him. Nicolo took the reins and gently nudged the horse to carry on, quickening their pace significantly. 

He sensed al-Tayyib swaying behind him so he slowed slightly. He felt hands gently on his hips, so he chanced another acceleration, and this time al-Tayyib seemed more secure. 

Over time, the man’s body leaned more and more into his own, and eventually, Nicolò was certain a head rested on his shoulder. He cast a quick glance back to make sure this was just sleep, and not death. It seemed to be. When al-Tayyib’s hands slid off his hips, Nicolo quickly grabbed one arm and slung it across his lap, holding it secure so he wouldn’t fall. This man needed food now. 

As if by divine intervention, Nicolò could see up ahead in the distance the blurred form of what might be an animal. He clutched al-Tayyib’s arm tighter and sped up. As they approached the form, Nicolò was disheartened at first to see that the creature, whatever it had been, was several days dead. 

He considered, however, that there may likely be more of them within the vicinity. They continued on for a ways, before they came across a herd of gazelles on the horizon. Nicolò progressed them forward until they were within stomping distance, but not so close that they would yet startle the animals. He sensed al-Tayyib stirring slightly and cast his eyes back.

When the fair-haired man turned back to the road ahead, Yusuf followed his gaze, locking his eyes ahead on the animals. He said nothing. In an instant he inelegantly dismounted the horse and drew his sabre from his back. He trudged forward with determination, and then sped up to a sprint, took a swing at the herd in front of him, effectively sending them leaping away. Some turned left. He followed the ones that turned right. He chased them so that they circled back to join the others.

If it were another situation, or perhaps another man, Nicolò might have thought this was funny. But this was not a man who awkwardly chased antelope. This was a warrior who, on a normal day, likely could have stalked one of these creatures with ease, could have killed it with poise. Watching him struggle was almost depressing. After a few minutes he could watch no more. He procured his crossbow, took quick aim at one of the beasts. It fell immediately to the ground. Al-Tayyib turned to him.

Nicolò dismounted from the horse and walked them over to al-Tayyib and the dead creature. He feared he had made the wrong move, that his help would be ill-received, that the man would continue his obstinate hunger strike. 

“Will you eat this now,” he asked, standing by the gazelle, “or refuse because I killed it?”

Yusuf blinked at the fair-haired man. He felt grateful for the assistance, but taken aback at the accusation. He was starving, he would not refuse food, not unless…

Understanding washed over him.

“ _I do not eat swine_ ,” he professed, too tired and clouded to realize he was speaking Arabic.

Nicolò stared back.

“ _Pig_ ,” he explained, and then snorted in demonstration. “ _Swine_.”

“Pork,” Nicolò, understanding, translated in Sabir. Only then did Yusuf realize what he was doing.

“Yes, pork,” he answered in the language they both understood. “I do not eat it.”

“Why didn’t you say?” Nicolò asked simply. 

Yusuf paused. There had been Christians in this land for many years. He had gotten to know quite a bit about their customs. He’d only assumed they had the curiosity, if not the decency to absorb some knowledge about Islam as well. “I thought you knew.”

“No. I did not know.”

“Well…” Yusuf’s feelings were complicated. He regretted assuming that Nicolò had been intentionally tormenting him the previous night, especially now after the extra regard he’d taken for his safety and well-being today. But still, this invader ought to understand more about the people of this land, the land he had pillaged, the people he had conquered, especially now that he seemed intent upon staying in this place with them, at least for the time being. “Now you know.” 

“Yes, now I know.” Nicolò spat back, so pointedly Yusuf couldn’t help a smirk. _Sassy Frank._ “Are there other foods?”

It was a reply that almost answered the thoughts Yusuf hadn’t even spoken, and it was so immediate, he almost had to take a step back. He explained briefly about haram and a few of the animals which fell in the category. He would be more forthcoming about other circumstances if needed in the future.

Nicolò nodded and tethered the horses to a nearby boulder.   
  
“I will make a fire,” he said. “Rest.”

Yusuf watched him for a moment, before taking a step to follow him.

“I can help gather wood,” he started, but Nicolò was quick to quash the offer.

“Rest.” He repeated with the same pointed tone, and then muttered under his breath in the language Yusuf could not understand, “ _Ase scemmo._ ” He had been called this once before.

Some time later, Nicolò watched the color return to al-Tayyib’s cheeks and the spirit to his eyes, as he bit down on his second helping of meat. When he finished this portion he reached for yet another cut, but hesitated. He gestured for Nicolò in offering.

“No,” Nicolò answered. “You.”

He’d had his fill. And he was not the one of them in greater need of sustenance. Nicolò had plenty of coppiette (he would be mindful not to eat it in al-Tayyib’s immediate company). 

“I don’t think I would die of hunger,” Yusuf reasoned, recalling Nicolo’s words from their quarrel from the night before. “Not for long anyway.”

“You slow us down.” 

Yusuf looked up to catch Nicolo’s piercing green eyes staring at him across the fire. He quirked a facetious smile. Yusuf returned it in spite of himself. 

“Where are we going?” He asked esoterically. Nicolò stared, almost through him, considering. 

“Where does not matter,” he finally said.

Yusuf nodded. It was true. Their first task must surely be to get beyond this barren road. But then… he stole a glance at Nicolò again. He felt a strange sense of pity for the wandering man. He reflected to himself that it was quite the show of trust from someone who had been his mortal enemy only days ago. And Yusuf himself clearly felt it too, or the events of the day could not have taken place.

He remembered briefly the hand resting protectively across his own. 

“Thank you for helping today.” He spoke gently into the fire. “For getting me food.”

Nicolò swayed side to side as if dancing to music that wasn’t there, his arms folded on his bent knees. He quirked the corners of his lips into that almost smile again, and kept his eyes on the fire. “You’re welcome.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of this chapter was one of the first scenes that came to me when I imagined this story. It’s really not my favorite anymore, and I almost didn’t include it, but As it fleshed out, it resulted in the second part, of which there are some nice very moments, so ultimately I kept it in. I hope it is received well. 
> 
> As always, thank you in advance and in response to the kudos. They feed my heart. Any and all comments, constructive or otherwise, are welcome.


	8. Destination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s a short chapter, but I’m excited to be getting to the [beginning of the] good stuff now!

Less than an hour into their next day’s voyage, the road began to grow more and more green. Trees were scattered along the way, becoming progressively denser as they travelled. Over the next several days, they faced a much less treacherous journey. 

It did not take long for the two of them to slip into a routine. Nicolò kept a watchful eye whenever Yusuf took to his prayers, which was several times daily. Nicolò would hunt while Yusuf prepared a fire. Nicolò took the first watch each night. Yusuf got to see the sun rise each morning. 

They had even started teaching each other. Words and phrases here and there in their native tongues. Yusuf showed Nicolò how to use a sword. Nicolò let Yusuf try his crossbow (he did not take a liking to it). Yusuf took particular care to further explain what is haram when it came to his food, and they occasionally took time to share other attributes of their faiths with one another. The more Nicolò learned, the more he could see their similarities over their differences. It was strange to imagine that the opposite was true mere weeks ago, and that false belief was what had led him here. If he’d never had it, he might never have met this remarkable person. 

Al-Tayyib was remarkable, he thought. The things he knew. He could tell where they were going by the position of the stars. He knew which plants were safe to eat when game was scarce. He was… worldly. He was teaching Nicolò not just about his own culture, but of the others he had encountered too. Before coming to this part of the world, Nicolò had barely ever left Genoa. He’d known only a few people from outside his village. The absolute understanding he had of the world a short time ago was growing more and more ridiculous. He could almost feel his mind expanding, which in turn made his heart grow heavier and heavier with regret. 

“Nicolò,” he heard al-Tayyib say, vaguely aware he had repeated himself. 

Nicolò looked up, pulled out of his stupor. They were sitting by the fire, and Yusuf was looking at him expectantly. 

“How do you like the sickouria?”

He looked at his plate of greens, nodding.

“Well it is not pheasant…” he lamented facetiously, “but it is nice.”

“It is good to eat plants once in a while,” Yusuf affirmed, and he smiled. Nicolò felt it was always difficult to be glum when he smiled. “Good for motility.”

He moved his hands over his lower belly in a circle. This made Nicolò laugh, with a carefree snort that Yusuf found peculiarly charming. 

“It is better at home,” he continued. “I always suspect the salt in the air effects the soil, makes everything taste better.” 

“Is that where you are going?” Nicolò asked, head down to his plate, willing himself to eat the food generously prepared for him. After a pause, he looked up to al-Tayyib’s questioning look. “Are you bound for Mahdia?” 

Yusuf smiled lightly to himself. 

“It would be nice to see it again,” he nodded. “It is beautiful. I haven’t been back in many years.”

“Why?”

“I left to study in Alexandria,” he explained. “My mother wanted me to learn cartography, but I confess I was more interested in the arts, and knew as much before I had even arrived. That didn’t suit my uncle’s will so he stopped sending payment for my education. It didn’t take long to realize the life of an artist is not so easy as it seemed.”

“Where was your father?” Nicolò asked kindly, setting down his clean plate. 

“He died when I was twelve,” al-Tayyib answered. “My mother married his brother.”

His next thoughts seemed to be trapped in his head. Nicolò waited quietly while he found the words. 

“They were not the same man,” he said at last.

Nicolò gazed at him thoughtfully. _He_ had not known who his parents were. He was raised by nuns. His mother had been very young when she showed up at the church, moments from giving birth. She’d disappeared from the place before Nicolò ever saw his first morning. 

“How did you end up fighting?” he asked al-Tayyib.

“My mother had a cousin in Cairo who took me in,” he explained. “The men had all joined the Fatimid caliphate. There were not many other options.”

Nicolò nodded in understanding.

“And you?” The Mahgrebi man was asking him.

He considered this. Nicolò had also had very little by way of choice in his life. Raised in the church, it seemed only natural that he would join the clergy. He didn’t have a name of his own beyond the common “di Genova” the nuns gave all the orphans. He didn’t have anyone to teach him much more than the monks in his diocese could. When the opportunity to join the Balistrai came around, he could not let it pass him by. He yearned for a purpose.

He had not had the forethought that he would come to regret and resent that purpose. 

“It is just what is done,” he answered quietly.

“In Genoa?”

“Yes, Genoa.”

Yusuf watched Nicolò. It was his turn to be lost in thought. He asked a lot of questions, Yusuf had taken note over recent days, but he offered little of his own thoughts. He kept them mostly to himself, which Yusuf found intriguing. Almost tantalizing. 

He didn’t seem to mind that.

Yusuf was happy to do the talking. Words had always come easily to him. This reminded him of a question he’d been meaning to ask.

“What was the word you called me the other day?” Nicolò looked at him, the need for context clear on his face. “When I did not eat the boar. You muttered something in Zeneize.”

Nicolò smirked.

“ _Ase scemmo_ ” he said. “Witless mule.”

“Very nice, Nicolò,” but Yusuf laughed lightheartedly.

“ _You_ called me crazy,” Nicolò reminded him in his own defense.

“You _are_ crazy,” Yusuf argued. 

Yusuf recalled the utter shock and horror he’d felt waking up to the sound and sight of Nicolò willingly removing a finger. Whatever he had thought about the man prior to that was turned completely around in that moment. But then, he took such vigilant care of him when he was suffering from starvation. Over the following days, Yusuf found that his opinion of Nicolò was ever-changing, ever-evolving, completely unabiding. He was a surprising man, and Yusuf was never quite sure what he would do or say next.

He didn’t seem to mind that either.

“I think we should go to Alexandria,” he said a few moments later. He had been deliberating over this for the past few days, and felt this was the best of all the options. He explained his reasoning at Nicolo’s questioning look. “It is a modern city. Very diverse. You would not be quite so out of place there. You could pass for Greek, perhaps.”

“Greek?”

“You speak Greek, yes?”

“No.”

Yusuf scratched his forehead in mild exasperation, before nodding resolutely. “We’ll add that to the list.”

“What will we do in Alexandria?” Nicolò asked him. 

“Well,” Yusuf considered his suggestions carefully. “It is a major port city. You could seek passage on a ship perhaps. Find your way home.”

“Is that what you will do?” Nicolò asked quickly.

This was the question Yusuf had been lightly considering, and mostly avoiding, for days. He couldn’t deny the ache he felt to see his home again, to see his mother. But even brushing past her husband’s incessant hostility towards him, and the disdain he would receive for seemingly deserting the garrison, imagining a happy reunion, what would happen next? He would become a fisherman like his father before him? Find a wife? Live out his days, ya Allah, however long that may be, catching and selling fish, painting the sunrise, dreaming of the world? That life was not for him. That life would not have him now anyway.

“I don’t think I can go home,” he said at last.

“Nor me.” They locked eyes a for a beat.

“Alexandria then,” Yusuf nodded.

“And do what?” Nicolo asked again.

“I suppose we will figure that out when we get there.”

“Together?” Nicolò asked carefully. “And become allies?”

“Are we not allies now?” Yusuf asked sincerely. 

They locked eyes again. A moment passed, and then al-Tayyib offered Nicolò that reassuring grin he’d quickly come to rely on. It seemed to always appear whenever Nicolò needed it most. When his thoughts raced. When the questions or the regrets overcrowded his mind. He didn’t know what he had that he could give in return, but he hoped to learn. To offer. To provide. He nodded and returned his signature twinkle of a smile.


	9. Respite

About a week passed before their path brought them to a small city by the sea. The sun had lately been setting regularly along the shoreline, which suggested to Yusuf they had reached the easternmost part of Egypt. The road would become more arid again soon. It would be wise to try and spend a few days of rest if they could. 

They found a caravansary run by Samaritans, and despite having no coinage to rent a room, Yusuf had done well to barter with the innkeeper, paying their way with two of the weapons he had taken from the bandits in the desert. It bought them three nights. He sold the ring for some currency as well. The chalice he was saving for Alexandria. 

The room was small, but it did have two cots and was just down the hall from the baths. Yusuf had been brought nearly to tears when he saw the _hammam_. Without request, Nicolò took it upon himself to explore the square so that Yusuf could bathe in peace.

Yusuf didn’t take as much time for himself as he would have liked, worrying slightly about the European man outside and what kind of trouble he might attract. When he found the man in the coffeehouse, however, he was surprised to find him chatting jovially with one of the servers, a woman. _He doesn’t even really know that much Arabic_ , Yusuf mused. He found himself chuckling in amazement, they way he often did at the exploits of Nicolò. 

When he sensed a man taking a seat beside him, Nicolò glanced at him briefly and then quickly back again slightly nonplussed. He was taken aback at the change in al-Tayyib’s appearance. His hair, freshly washed was not the wild, unkempt poof he had come to know. He could see tendrils of curls spinning together, falling across his face under a clean, black kufiya. He had shaved his beard too, not all the way, but enough to better display the dimples in his cheeks. He dressed in a fresh, clean tunic the color of the desert sand, which reached all the way to his shins, where loose pants of the same color continued to his sandals. Over everything, hung a loose vest of slate blue. He looked ten years younger. Nicolò felt a curious, vicarious joy at the sight of him. 

“What is wrong with you?” He heard the man asking. Realizing he must have been gaping, he closed his slack jaw. 

“I…hardly knew you,” he answered. 

“There are fresh clothes in the room for you,” al-Tayyib nodded casually. “You could do with a bath as well, Nicolò.”

He looked down at himself and was suddenly self-conscious of his appearance (and probably his stench), especially compared to al-Tayyib’s new look. He excused himself to the bathhouse so he could remedy this. It was an extravagance he was not accustomed to. In Genoa, the bathhouses were known more accurately to be brothels. In the rectory at his diocese, he washed daily with a linen cloth and was able to submerge in a wooden tub every now and again. This… was heavenly.

He took significantly more time than al-Tayyib had. He scrubbed himself until he could be certain there wasn’t a single grain of desert sand on him, nor the lingering scent of sweat and blood that had been clinging to him since Jerusalem. His fingers resembled prunes when he finally climbed out.

When he returned to the room, he saw al-Tayyib had laid out a robe for him as well, this one was a sea foam shade of green. There was no vest, but instead a black, silk belt. The ensemble reminded Nicolò very much of the cassocks he wore at home. 

He returned to the square where he found al-Tayyib sitting with a group of traveling merchants. When he’d seen Nicolò approaching, he stood abruptly and marched to him with purpose.

“You feel better, right?” He remarked with a jovial grin. Nicolò nodded and looked down at himself.

“It is very comfortable, thank you.”

“I hope you like the color,” al-Tayyib was saying as he approached Nicolò’s back. He untied the belt, untwisted it from the coil it had been and refastened it so that it rested flat against his waist. “I saw it and thought it would go well with your eyes. Not many men in this land have eyes like yours.” 

He took Nicolò by the shoulders and turned him around. 

“It is very nice, thank you,” Nicolò repeated humbly.

“Come,” al-Tayyib exclaimed, clapping Nicolò on the back and leading him to a fire in the square. “There is to be a feast tonight. Some merchants have just arrived from Cairo who have generously paid for all who are here.”

That evening they filled their bellies with a bounty of foods from lands far and wide, and they lifted their spirits with the good company of travelers the like. There was wine and music, storytelling and dancing. Nicolò could not recall a more joyous occasion in all his life. 

On more than one occasion, Yusuf noticed the young server girl from the coffeehouse making eyes in Nicolò’s direction. He was intrigued slightly to see that Nicolò appeared not to notice at first, and even more so to wonder that he was willfully ignoring it. 

There was, after all, something to way Nicolò looked at him earlier. It was fleeting, but… stirring all the same. 

“I think she likes you,” he said, nudging him in the shoulder and lifting his chin in her direction. He was partly goading Nicolò along, partly investigating. 

Nicolò only smirked slightly, and then attempted to hide it behind his cup of wine. 

“Do you not find her pleasing?” Yusuf pressed. Nicolò nodded as he swallowed his sip.

“She is very beautiful,” he agreed, but did not offer more of his thoughts.

“If… you would like to take her to the room,” al-Tayyib suggested, “I am happy to stay here a while.”

Nicolò’s eyes widened slightly and, as Yusuf noticed with only minimal apologies, he actually blushed. 

“No?” He asked the red-faced man gently.

“My vows disallow it,” Nicolò confessed looking down into his cup. 

Yusuf blinked, and crossed his arms over his chest. This admission was not what he had expected at all. “You are married?”

Nicolò looked back up at him quickly and smiled, shaking his head. “I am ordained.”

“You are a holy man?” 

“Yes. You didn’t know?”

“No.” This effectively sent Yusuf’s thoughts into a tailspin, and yet somehow it made sense. He thought back to the past several days they had spent together. Nicolò was a man of service. He spent nearly every waking moment trying to further their cause, whether it was finding food, or making headway on their journey, or simply becoming less like strangers to one another. He was given to taking long bouts of silence from time to time. Yusuf thought he had just been brooding, but he supposed now they could have been occasions of prayer.

There were contradictions, of course. What kind of priest kills a man? A crusader, he supposed. What kind of holy man willfully cuts off his own finger? One experiencing a lapse of reality and perhaps a crisis of faith? What kind of Catholic leader runs away with a Muslim man and does not try to convert him? One who maybe regrets his part in a bloody campaign of hate and ignorance? 

The more he tried to understand Nicolò, the more of an enigma he found him to be. And still, the more mysterious he decided Nicolò was, the more he felt he knew him. It was a strange, thrilling sensation. 

The two men sat in silence a moment more, before something about Nicolò’s confession stirred a curiosity in Yusuf that he couldn’t push aside.

“Does this mean you have never?” He asked as sensitively as he could. Nicolo responded with his sly smile that he could somehow express with only his eyes.

“I was a man before I was a priest,” was all he said in reply.

“And now that you are a priest…” Yusuf continued in careful enquiry, “it is forbidden?”

Nicolò stared forward at the fire in front of them, then beyond to the crowd of happy travelers. He considered his explanation. Celibacy had long been a tenet of priesthood. So had the tradition of ignoring that tenet. He’d personally known priests who took lovers. He knew of priests who had taken wives too, but they had been married first before ordination. Feelings on the matter seemed to change as often as fashion, and Nicolò couldn’t keep up with either. Only fourteen years before Nicolò was born, the Pope himself resigned so he could marry. The one chosen to replace him strongly opposed marriage in the preisthood. A new edict just four years ago saw wives of priests sold into slavery and their children abandoned on the streets. 

“It… has always been frowned upon,” Nicolò explained simply. “Though it happens often.”

“And still you abstain,” Yusuf couldn’t keep his curiosity quiet.

“I have enough sins to atone for,” Nicolò said quietly, after a beat, and finally met al-Tayyib’s eyes again. 

Yusuf could see in that moment, all the puzzles and contradictions he thought he’d seen in Nicolò, melting together and fading away to reveal a man, fundamentally good in nature, who was on a constant quest to do the right thing. There he was, surprising him again. 

“Are you married, Tayyib?” Nicolò asked him.

“Me?” Yusuf was caught unaware for the conversation to shift focus on him. 

“Yes.”

“No,” he replied. “I was promised once.”

Nicolò raised his eyebrows in interest, but did not interrupt.

“Our parents set it up when we were children,” Yusuf continued. “It would have been a business marriage… but she was a nice girl.”

“Was?”

Yusuf nodded, and paused. He realized he wasn’t entirely sure of how to say the word in the Lingua Franca. There was never a reason to speak it in that context before. He searched his memory.

“Leprosy?”

Nicolò’s eyes darkened. He nodded once. 

“She was one of the lucky ones;” Yusuf said sadly, “it took her quickly.”

“I’m sorry,” Nicolò spoke quietly.

“Me too,” Yusuf nodded again. “I only met her a few times. We were young. Too young to be married before she got sick. My mother never really approved anyway. It wasn’t that she didn’t like Hawa. She didn’t approve me marrying someone unless it was… _ruwhi_.”

Nicolò thought he recognized the Arabic word for soul. _Soulmate_. He understood.

“She would say, Yusuf, your heart is too big to waste it on small love,” al-Tayyib laughed. The grin he cast to think of his mother seemed to radiate a glorious light on the whole square, but Nicolò was taken aback, blinking at the drop of the moniker he hadn’t heard used.

“Yusuf?” He asked. 

“Yes, that’s my name.” He laughed again at Nicolò’s completely nonplused expression. It hadn’t occurred to him that he never mentioned this before. “Al-Tayyib is just what I am called.” 

“Why?”

He shrugged. 

“Just a nickname. It was given to me by a friend of my father’s when I was a boy. One of my cousins in Cairo was Yusuf also, and there were two others who lived nearby. It just became easier to introduce myself as al-Tayyib.”

Nicolò chuckled so slightly it was barely noticeable. Only this man could say it was easier just to introduce himself as “ _the good one,_ ” and have it be completely charming. 

“To my mother, though, I was always her Yusuf,” he added wistfully.

“What is her name?” Nicolò asked. 

“Nejla.” Yusuf responded. “It means… big eyes.”

“So that is where you get them,” Nicolò commented without thinking.

Their eyes met sharply. Both worked desperately to hide the burst of unrest dancing behind them; Yusuf’s bewilderment, Nicolò’s panic. Time seemed to slow. Nicolò was certain the other man would be able to hear the pounding of his pulse. 

The moment, which seemed to persist for an eternity, though in truth it was only a few seconds, was ruptured when the girl from the coffee house approached Nicolò. She spoke to him shyly in Arabic.

 _“Will you dance with me_?” She asked, sweetly.

Nicolò did not respond. His eyes darted back and forth between her and Yusuf, who could see that Nicolò hadn’t understood her question.

“The lady wants a dance,” he explained with a reassuring grin. “Surely your vows permit that.”

The girl took Nicolò by the hands and whisked him away to join several others dancing in the square. Yusuf watched the man awkwardly rollicking with her. He couldn’t help but smile at every ridiculous thing about him in that moment.

Sighing he turned to the crowd and emptied what was left in his cup into his mouth. When he lowered his hand and looked ahead, there before him was a woman who hadn’t been there a moment earlier. She fluttered her eyes at him, and he flashed her his dimples. She took his hand and led him back to her seat. She didn’t seem to want to dance. 

Small talk commenced. _What is your name? What do you do? Where are you heading? Would you like to kiss me?_ Small talk was finished. 

And why not? It had been a while since he’d enjoyed the company of a woman. He did not wish to scandalize his new priest friend by bringing her back to their room, but he could enjoy some kissing here in the square.

And he did. 

And of course Nicolò noticed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well the good news is this is definitely my favorite chapter so far and I’m so happy to finally be posting it. The bad news is I’ve been posting faster than I’ve been writing. I do have the bare bones of several more chapters, and somewhere in my head lives snippets of a few more... but I definitely won’t be able to post a chapter a day from here on out. I’m hoping to have the next one finished by the end of the weekend. If you’re enjoying the story, I hope you come back!


	10. The Good One

The following evening was not nearly as rousing in any way, shape, or form. Dinner was whatever any traveler could afford to purchase from the kitchen, and most of the happy crowd from the first night had moved on that day. There was still a fire to sit by, but there was no music nor dancing. Conversation was not as exuberant. Yusuf chatted quietly with a lone Eritrean spice trader, and occasionally with a pair of Sogdian silk traders. Nicolò kept mostly to himself, as the conversation with the Eritrean surpassed his basic command of Arabic, and the one in Sogdian was completely beyond him. Yusuf later admitted to him that he wasn’t sure of most of it either. 

On their third day a small group of Fatimid soldiers arrived. There were only three of them, and they looked as road-weary and war-torn as Yusuf and Nicolò had mere days ago, but that did not quell the ominous pit growing in Nicolò’s stomach from the moment they arrived.

“We should leave now,” he suggested to Yusuf that afternoon, just after they’d made a successful trade of their horses for a pair of camels, which were better acclimated to the desert climate they would be forging the next day. They stood together, watching the men from the shadows of the stables.

“We are paid through the morning,” Yusuf replied logically. “We do not know when we will next find such amenities.”

Nicolò said nothing, but Yusuf could read the worry on his face, and he understood its impetus. If he was discovered as a deserter, he would likely be imprisoned or perhaps sold into slavery. If Nicolò was made as an invader, there was no imagining the limits of what would be done to him, and to Yusuf by association. He rested a reassuring hand on his new friend’s shoulder.

“I do not know these men, and they do not know me,” he assured him. “We will keep our heads down and be gone by morning.”

Nicolò’s expression remained uneasy. Yusuf gripped a little tighter. 

“They are travel-worn,” he explained. “Trust me, they are not looking for trouble this night.”

After a beat, the European finally nodded resolutely, eliciting Yusuf’s steady grin.

“Fear not,” he said, leading the way back to the square.

They did as Yusuf said and kept to themselves all that day. At Nicolò’s suggestion, they remained apart so as not to draw attention to the odd pairing. This did not keep Nicolò from knowing Yusuf’s every move. At dinner time, he watched him from across the fire, casually making small chat with the spice trader, but keeping things graciously curt. He watched him eyeing the trio of soldiers warily, as they topped off their fourth round of wine. He watched as he politely accepted the company of his lady friend from the other night. She sat on his lap, whispering into his ear things that made his eyes crinkle and sparkle, and kissing his neck, and then his cheek. He watched as Yusuf tried to tilt his head, to keep his attention on the newcomers, but then her mouth was on his, and his attention was on her.

Nicolò shifted his gaze to the soldiers. Their laughter was increasing in tenor and volume, but they took little note of much other than their drinks, which gave him a small amount of relief. Perhaps he was wrong to have worried so much. 

“ _Another drink_?” A voice was asking in Arabic. Nicolò looked up to see Yusuf’s kissing partner standing in front of him with a decanter of wine. He looked beyond her to Yusuf who was making a face at him that conveyed dazzling relief to be sucking the air and not this woman’s mouth. He smirked at Nicolò. Nicolò did not return it. He wondered, despite himself, which of the two had ended their brief tryst. 

“Sir? More wine?” The woman pressed in Sabir, seemingly assuming he had not understood. 

“ _No_ ,” Nicolò responded quickly in Arabic, with a polite smile. He did not want that language to be overheard in his proximity. “ _Thank you_.”

She moved on to the next group of travelers. Nicolò did not look back at Yusuf. He gazed instead at the fire in front of him for a few moments, before the sound of increasing laughter and a struggle brought his attention to the soldiers. They were snickering, as one of them, an officer by the look of it, held a strong grip of the server’s wrist. She was trying to pull away, and had a fearful expression on her face. The soldier was speaking, less to her than to his friends. Nicolò made out some of the words, _generous, my turn, whore._

He was on his feet quickly, but Yusuf was already halfway across the way before he’d even seen. 

“ _Gentlemen_ ,” he said genially, “ _call me old fashioned, but a woman ought to decide for herself who she takes as a lover, no_?”

Nicolò did not understand all of what his friend had said, but he got the main gist of it, and he could think of nothing less old-fashioned. In fact, this sentiment was several centuries ahead of its time in most parts of the world, they would come to learn. The soldiers clearly disagreed with Yusuf’s hypothesis. The man holding the woman turned her forcefully towards Yusuf but kept his grip on her. She whimpered slightly. Yusuf remained calm.

“ _Tozz fik, moxannas_ ,” the soldier spat at Yusuf. _Screw you, sissy man._ “ _Mind your business. You had your chance and you dismissed her. Now it’s my turn.”_

 _“There are no turns, friend_ ,” Yusuf insisted. “ _She is quite capable of making her own choices, as am I… as are you. You are now faced with the choice of living up to the honor bestowed on you as an officer of the caliphate…, or to forfeit it._ ”

The soldier’s sneer narrowed slightly, and he rocked back and forth on his legs as if unsure what to make of the man in front of him, “ _You deign to refute my honor?_ ”

“ _I do_ ,” he answered readily, “ _if you do not let the girl go. A man who lays his life on the line to protect the innocent, he is a man who should be respected, admired even. A man who threatens innocent women, he is something else. As I say the choice is yours.”_

“ _Yes, it is…friend._ ” He sneered again. “ _And as I say, it is not your business._ ”

He whipped the girl around to face him and thrust his tongue into her mouth. She struggled to fight him off, but her efforts were no match for his size and strength. The men behind him snickered menacingly, no doubt each eager for their own turn after. Yusuf took a step forward, but it was Nicolò who got to them first. 

Before anyone knew what had happened, he’d pulled the girl away and thrown his signature Genoa punch at the officer’s nose. He was knocked back briefly, but his two compatriots were quick to grab Nicolò by his shoulders. He didn’t make it easy for them. He thrust his head back, effectively knocking one of them in the teeth. The second kept a firm hold on him though and, as their leader stepped back into the fray, thrust a knife under Nicolò’s neck. 

Yusuf made to reach under his tunic for his dagger, but the third man quickly pulled his saber and pointed it at him. 

“ _Who’s this now_ ,” the officer was asking, looking from Nicolò to Yusuf, “ _your boyfriend_?” 

Yusuf and Nicolò exchanged a brief glance. The crowd, if you could call it that, had backed away into a much larger sparse circle around them. The wine server was safely in the arms of the Samaritan innkeeper, her father, perhaps.

“ _What’s this?_ ” the officer asked again, drawing his own saber and stepping closer to Nicolò. He used the point of his scimitar to lightly separate the fabric of his collar, revealing the crucifix resting against his chest.

The officer was looking Nicolò firmly in his eyes, close enough that he could feel his breath on him.

“ _This man is an infidel invader,_ ” he said quietly. 

Yusuf’s expression turned from outrage to fear. He looked to Nicolò, whose eyes were locked in his direction. His expression, though alarm was apparent, seemed more so to convey chagrin, and was it... apology? Yusuf was quick to shake his head. If there was fault to be had, he could not see it being Nicolò’s. This was not the low profile Yusuf had promised. 

“ _If ever there was something I could love more than killing a Frank, I would be delighted to learn it._ ” He traced his saber down Nicolò’s chest and then back up to his throat, saber meeting dagger. “ _He is quite the nosy sort, isn’t he, boys_?”

The other two chuckled, as if in on some inside joke.

“ _Hold him Imad_ ,” he said with authority. The man holding Nicolò grabbed him around both arms, pulling them behind him. The officer stepped even closer, pulling a dagger of his own. He wasted no time placing it on the bridge of Nicolò’s nose. He pressed down and Nicolò let out the most menacing scream Yusuf had heard him make, which was saying a lot. 

Yusuf’s body instinctively leaned into the drama, but the soldier in front of him swiped across his chest forcing him back. Nicolò was still screaming. Yusuf could not see behind the Fatimid officer, but he was reasonably certain he was actually cutting off Nicolò’s nose. When the man stepped away, he caught only a glimpse of the bloody mess before the dagger sliced across Nicolò’s throat and he dropped to the ground. There was scattered screaming from the people surrounding them and Yusuf was only vaguely aware of them running away to safety. He thought maybe he’d cried out himself, but his senses were in jumbled disarray.

When the officer turned to Yusuf, holding both his saber and his dagger, he flashed a sinister smile. All Yusuf’s focus shifted to him.

“ _That is what happens to nosy infidels_ ,” he explained. “ _Would you like to find out what happens to nosy Arabs?_ ”

Yusuf scowled across the blade in his face, to the dishonorable man who had just killed is friend. Something inside of him he did not recognize was bubbling to the surface. When he spoke, he kept his voice even and calm.

“ _I am Mahgrebhi,_ ” was all he said. 

In one fluid motion, he dropped to the ground and kicked his leg in a circle, knocking the man closest to him onto his back. Another swift kick launched the man’s saber into the air. He was able to catch it just as he stood to his full height, just in time to stave off the advances of the other two men. 

Yusuf fought defensively for the most part, with the prime intent to disarm. He had no desire to kill these men. Nefarious as they may be, they were still fighting for many innocent Arab people against a bloody invasion campaigned by a vicious, relentless army. Despite Nicolò’s change of heart, Yusuf had no disillusions about the nature of the Frank objective.

Still… when he finally disarmed each man, he pulled no punches. He would not kill them, but one by one he beat them to a bloody pulp, and when it was the leader’s turn, he took extra time to convey his disapproval of the man’s policies. It was like a flip had been switched. He had never felt such rage, such fury. He did not know where it had been born from. He only knew it needed to be released. But the flip was suddenly switched back when he registered a familiar voice calling to him. “Tayyib“ at first, and then…

“Yusuf!”

He stopped. 

He looked up.

Nicolò was standing where he had dropped. His face was still bloody, but his nose was in tact. His neck had closed up. He was alive. He was staring at Yusuf, but there was no judgement in his expression. There was only compassion.

Yusuf looked down at the man beneath him, who groaned. He had not killed him. He would not kill him. The other two were sprawled out on the ground nearby, unconscious. He stood, and dropped the commandeered saber at his feet. He stepped toward Nicolò, who nodded assuringly.

“ _I’m here_ ,” he said in Zeneize. 

They wasted no time packing their things. Their departure would not wait until morning. Under the light of the stars they rode out together atop the camels they had traded for. They rode for several hours, neither man daring to speak. 

Nicolò finally decided it was time to make camp and the two men wordlessly returned to their previous routine. As was typical, Nicolò took a comfortable enough perch to take first watch, heaving a great sigh. Yusuf knew that sigh. He had heaved that sigh himself. Dying took a lot out of you.

“If you would like to sleep…” he started.

“No,” Nicolò said lightly. 

Filled with regret, Yusuf fixed himself a spot to sleep, but he did not lay himself down. _Trust me_ , he’d said. And Nicolò had. And look what happened. 

“It hurt.” It was a question, but not really a question. 

Nicolò shifted his gaze from the fire to Yusuf.

“Yes, but it does not anymore,” he said simply. That seemed to be as much mind as Nicolò wished to pay to the traumatic bits of their new life. Their new gift. Their new curse. 

“I am sorry,” Yusuf said despondently. “I should have listened to you today.”

“It is not your fault,” Nicolò said in a very matter-of-fact tone that Yusuf found both gracious and infuriating.

“It is,” he insisted.

“You did not make me step into the situation,” Nicolò replied. “We all make choices, just like you said.”

”If we had left when you suggested, you would not have had to step into anything,” Yusuf argued to Nicolò. “And you would not have been killed.”

“Not by those men,” he granted. “But perhaps by a bandit. Perhaps by a snake. Perhaps by the heat.”

Yusuf considered this take. It was very esoteric, a typical way for Nicolò to think. But it didn’t quell his feelings on the matter. When he did not respond, Nicolò spoke one last time on the matter, taking care to be as succinct as possible.

“You are not responsible for keeping at bay every death that may find me.”

Yusuf nodded. Logically he supposed he did know this. But on a spiritual level, he had to wonder if this was true. There had to be some reason for the two of them awakening together with this strange power. There had to be some purpose to the fact that their guts kept telling them to stick together. 

And Yusuf couldn’t deny the heartache he felt when Nicolò had dropped to the ground in front of him. Whatever this man had once been to him, he felt a true affection for him now. 

“I would still stop it if could,” he said quietly.

“Of course you would, Yusuf,” Nicolò responded wisely. He looked him in the eye with a smile, and he spoke next in Zeneize. “ _You are the good one._ ”

Nicolò knew without question that if the roles had been reversed, if he had watched those men kill Yusuf, he would have killed them. In his quest, in his penance, he was grateful he did not have to, but even more sorry for the fact that Yusuf was left with the burden of restraint.

Finally Yusuf smiled back to Nicolò. He wasn’t sure he entirely agreed with his sentiment, as Nicolò revealed to him more and more of his goodness all the time, but it brought him peace nonetheless. He still felt regret, but he was calmed by the man, and he would sleep soundly now knowing his friend was nearby…and well. 

“Goodnight Nicolò.” He lay himself down and rested his slightly less weary head.

“Goodnight, Yusuf.”

From that moment on, Yusuf stopped introducing himself as al-Tayyib. He was once again his mother’s Yusuf. And it seemed, he thought with a smile as he drifted off to sleep, he was Nicolò’s Yusuf now too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter existed as two or three sentences less than 24 hours ago, but I was hit with an inspiration arrow and somehow banged this out (much to the suffering of the yard-work I meant to do today). 
> 
> An fun tidbit on this chapter: the small city theory found the caravansary in was always Arish in my head even though I never wrote that name. I learned months after finishing this story that Arish was known as “the place where noses (of criminals) are cut off.” I kid not.
> 
> The next chapter has a pretty solid outline already so there’s a strong chance it will be up tomorrow. 
> 
> Thank you for all the positive comments and kudos!!!


	11. Small Revelations

“I’m sorry. Say that again?”

Yusuf didn’t really need Nicolò to say it again. He’d heard him clear as a bell. He just needed to be sure Nicolò had heard himself, so that he’d never again rightly be able to give Yusuf any grief for calling the man _majnun_. 

“Well…” Nicolò explained rather than repeated, “you remember when I cut off my finger, yes?”

“Vaguely,” Yusuf replied humorlessly.

“And then you remember when my nose was cut off…?”

He didn’t respond to this question at all. It had been several weeks since that terrible night, and Yusuf rarely spent a day without envisioning it at least once. He frowned at Nicolò who just stared back at him expectantly.

“It just makes me wonder,” he finally said, somehow completely innocently.

“If your head would reattach?” Yusuf spoke the words slowly to make sure Nicolò could hear just how crazy it sounded.

“…Yes.” Beyond Yusuf’s comprehension, the curiosity beaming out of him seemed pure and childlike in a way. That is what he told himself, anyway, in order to brush past how absolutely insane it was. He shook his head and went back to plucking the feathers from the ostrich they’d caught together.

“Don’t you wonder too?” Nicolò probed.

“No,” Yusuf answered quickly and with authority. “And I’m not helping you find out.”

They had been through a lot together, and it seemed, now, that the introverted man who kept to himself all those weeks was finally feeling comfortable enough to share his thoughts. Some of them, like this inspired question of what would happen if they were decapitated (would their head find a way to reattach, or would a new one simply grow back in its place?), were thoughts he wished Nicolò would keep to himself. 

But then there were other times when his thoughts were magical, like the moment three nights later. His watch had finished, but he couldn’t seem to sleep, so he just lay on his back staring up at the sky. While he was on guard, Yusuf had gotten in the habit of sketching him to pass the time. To pass the time, he told himself, anyway. He knew Nicolò was restless because he would not stay still.

“Eh eh, “Yusuf!” He exclaimed, pointing at the sky. “Did you see it?”

“See what?” He asked, shifting his gaze to where Nicolò pointed.

“The star,” he said excitedly. “It flew across the sky.”

Yusuf smiled to himself and gazed up into the night sky for a few moments.

“I missed it,” he said. 

“There will be more,” Nicolò assured him, which made Yusuf smile again. He was quite familiar with the frequency of shooting stars in the desert sky. But Nicolò promising him he would not miss the same wonder that brought him so much joy… that was his shooting star. 

“When I was a boy,” he mused aloud, as he had a recently increasing habit of doing, “I imagined that God made a perfect equal for each star. A perfect counterpart. When one finally found the other it flew across the universe to be with it.”

“That’s very romantic,” Yusuf replied quietly, as he finished sketching the curve of Nicolò’s knee, which he currently had bent pointed up to the sky. The next moment saw him turning his whole body toward Yusuf.

“What are you doing?” He asked.

“Drawing,” Yusuf answered plainly.

“Drawing what?”

He sighed a little, and shrugged with just his eyebrows.

“You,” he admitted keeping his eyes on his work.

“Why me?”

“You’re the only thing here.” 

“May I see?” Yusuf looked at Nicolò. He was sitting up now. It seemed he had given up completely on sleep. Yusuf reached out to hand him his notepad. He looked it over carefully, but furrowed his brow before looking back up at Yusuf. “I have no face.”

“Ah,” Yusuf nodded with a regretful smile. “No. That is haram.”

“Why?” Nicolò asked sincerely.

Yusuf paused before explaining succinctly. “Only Allah can create a man.”

“And I am not a man without a face?”

“Not quite,” Yusuf replied, smiling lightly.

It was true that this was skirting the rules slightly, but Yusuf had always had a particular proclivity for bending the rules when it came to art. He’d drawn men and women many times before. What was more true was that Yusuf suspected if he ever did dare to sketch Nicolò’s eyes…he would likely never stop.

“You have talent,” Nicolò said kindly, handing the sketchbook back.

It wasn’t the only one of Yusuf’s talents Nicolò noted in the past few weeks. It seemed that many things came naturally to him that were not quite as effortless for Nicolò. Languages, for example, were something that Yusuf could pick up with spectacular ease. And he was devotedly patient with Nicolò, as he struggled with Arabic, and now also with Greek.

“ _A-os-fuscia_ ,” he said slowly, in his heavy Ligurian accent that Yusuf had come to find comfort in. He was honestly torn with the responsibility of helping Nicolò pass for a more worldly man when they reached Alexandria, and the desire not to exterminate that piece of Nicolò he had come to hold dear. 

“ _Ausphuxia_ ,” he repeated to Nicolò through a lighthearted chuckle. 

“ _As-fuchia_ ,” he tried again. 

“Listen,” Yusuf said patiently. “K… k.”

Nicolò parroted the sound.

“S…” Yusuf hissed. And then Nicolò.

“Now put it together,” Yusuf instructed, before demonstrating the x sound. “ _Ausphuxia_.”

“ _Aos-fuch-sia_ ,” Nicolò persisted.

“Close enough,” Yusuf smiled. 

They had arrived to Damietta and were happy to have found an inn that would shelter them in exchange for some work. So Nicolò and Yusuf spent the following several days hunting ducks and catching fish, which pleased the innkeeper quite heartily.

“It means to stop the breathing?” Nicolò asked as he sat on a rock by the edge of the water, holding his crossbow.

“Yes,” Yusuf replied, wading up to his hips, casting his net out into the water. “A most effective way to kill.”

Nicolò scrunched his nose and frowned in distaste.

“If you want to be that close to your victim,” he argued.

“Why shouldn’t you?” Yusuf queried as a teacher might. “Killing is very personal. Very intimate, no?”

“I suppose,” Nicolò conceded.

“Weapons make things too easy,” Yusuf expounded as he carefully gathered the net in. “Like that contraption of yours.”

“This?” Nicolò looked down at his crossbow and then up at the sky. “Killing is not easy with this.”

“You aim and press the trigger, yes?” Yusuf asked, tossing the net again.

“Yes and that skill was not easy to acquire,” Nicolò responded, the slightest fraction of defense in his tone, “but it also demands much more of the mind… much, much more.”

“Oh?” Yusuf had turned to Nicolò, hands on his hips.

Nicolò paused to gather his thoughts. 

“With close combat at least you have immediate threat and instincts to vindicate you,” he reasoned to Yusuf. “The imminent danger of the situation justifies, almost dictates the horror of what you do next. It is more or less involuntary.”

Yusuf nodded. Nicolò kept his eyes on the sky.

“Killing from afar… it is a decision…” Nicolò explained. “One you have to patiently convince yourself to make over and over again, ready at every moment to take a life that could never defend itself. There is nothing instinctive about it. You must be deliberate.”

Yusuf nodded again. It was a perspective he had not ever considered, but he could see the truth in it. It was much like fishing and hunting. You have the advantage of tools and strategy. Skill and forethought. You could not do it without respecting the power it gave you over the animal. He wagered it would require triple the respect to kill a man this way.

“Yes…” he said, turning back to the water. “I imagine that would be difficult.”

“I have always had a knack for the skill,” Nicolò admitted, pointing his crossbow at the sky, “but not the taste for it.”

He shot a dart up into the air, striking a pochard, which fell promptly to the beach a short walk west of them. 

“Still it has its uses,” he said with a satisfied smirk.

“I do not argue that, Nicolò.” Yusuf replied, impressed with the man’s skill. When Nicolo returned from retrieving the bird, he reminded him, “now it is your turn to teach me one.”

Nicolò considered for a few moments while Yusuf emptied his catch into a large wooden pale on the shore.

“ _Menefreghista_ ,” he said.

“ _Menefreghista_ ,” Yusuf responded, with a perfect Ligurian accent. 

“Good,” Nicolò said with an exasperated chuckle. 

“What does it mean?” Yusuf asked, turning back to the water and tossing his net again.

“It is… an aloof person,” Nicolò explained. “Someone who does not think on the cares of others, does not worry about the matters of the world.”

Yusuf turned back to Nicolò and considered him warmly. 

“That is not you,” he offered. 

“No,” Nicolò looked back at him. “Nor you.”

Yusuf turned back once again to the horizon. He had done it again. Nicolò had revealed yet another piece of his heart that completely turned on its head assumptions Yusuf had once made about him. He was not a ruthless killer. He did not hold contempt for human life. He respected it. Mourned it even. Yusuf guessed that each and every person Nicolò had ever harmed weighed heavily on his soul.

This was never made more clear to him than the moment two nights later when Nicolò finally voiced it to him. They had just finished a meal in the tavern at the inn. Yusuf was enjoying a conversation with the innkeeper in which they were discussing the coming winter and the possibility of more permanent employment. Nearly an hour passed before he realized Nicolò was nowhere in sight. He imagined he had gone for a walk, as he was known to do, but then the innkeeper voiced the question of where his young daughter had disappeared to. 

As if right on cue, they heard the giggling of the five-year-old, followed by the laughter of a man coming from just outside. Yusuf could see through the window Nicolò sitting on a bench with her. They seemed to be playing make-believe with two of her toys. Yusuf smiled whole heartedly at the silly voices he could hear Nicolò adopting, once again in his ridiculously foreign accent.

When the innkeeper stepped outside to call his daughter in to get ready for bed, she obeyed without argument. Yusuf waited, but Nicolò did not follow her in. He remained where he was, gazing out into the night.

“Nicolò?” Yusuf called out, poking his head out the door.

Nicolò turned his head away from him abruptly.

“Yes, what is it?” he asked brusquely. 

“I was just checking on you,” Yusuf answered simply. 

“I am fine,” he said looking out ahead of him. “Please leave me be.”

“Yes, you look fine,” he replied with sarcasm. 

“Yusuf…” Nicolò warned.

“Did that little girl hurt your feelings?” Yusuf chided with a grin, stepping closer to him. Nicolò turned sharply to him. His eyes were red and heavy. Yusuf could clearly see the tracks of freshly fallen tears, which Nicolò tried to wipe away in haste.

“Nicolò...” The sight of him was a complete shock to Yusuf’s senses. And to his heart. He hastily placed himself at the man’s side on the bench, watching him with caution and concern.

“I’m sorry,” Nicolò said quietly, his breathing slightly labored. 

“For what?” He asked gently.

“...For all of it,” Nicolò closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh. Yusuf watched him fixedly, his brow furrowed. He understood Nicolò’s meaning, though he wasn’t sure what had brought this on. He thought about the little girl, which led him to remember the bodies of innocent women and children in Jersusalem. He could not imagine Nicolò carrying out such evil deeds, but at the very least he had been complicit in it, once. He was quiet for a long moment before he finally responded.

“…I know,” he said. He did. 

“I am a terrible man,” Nicolò said, gazing back out into the night, new tears building in his eyes. 

“No….” Yusuf said reflexively. He took a moment to gather his words. “No, Nicolò. You… are a good man who has done terrible things.”

Nicolò stared ahead. The despair in his eyes was gut-wrenching. 

“You are a soldier,” Yusuf reminded him, “…who once forgot he was first a man of God.”

Nicolò turned to him. He looked completely lost. Yusuf looked him straight in the eye and leaned the slightest bit toward him.

“You have not forgotten that for some time now.”

Nicolò blinked, and swallowed. The tears seemed to slow, but his eyes still mourned.

“I see who you are,” Yusuf said assuringly. He rested his hand on Nicolò’s shoulder. “I would not be your friend if you were the same unfeeling invader you once tried to be.”

“You forgive too quickly,” Nicolò responded wearily. 

“Perhaps,” Yusuf said. 

From what he could tell, though, there was enough guilt in Nicolò’s faith as it was, and Nicolo was particularly adept at self-infliction. He didn’t think any more needed to be piled on from an outside source. He did not believe the sum of a man should be measured by his worst deeds alone. 

The two men sat quietly for the next several minutes, staring ahead into the shifting fog, before Nicolò spoke again.

“Are you just going to sit here with me?”

Yusuf kept his eyes ahead.

“Yes,” was all he said in reply.

He _had_ forgiven him. Of course he had. He had seen too many glimpses of the soul underneath, not to know exactly who Nicolò was and who he was not. And tonight he saw it clearly. 

What briefly troubled him, before he cast the notion aside for tonight, was that he thought he might be falling in love with that soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... this chapter was originally meant to mostly offer some light-hearted fluff after the last chapter (and it still mostly is!), but it evolved into something that was extremely satisfying to finally get to. I sincerely hope you all like it.
> 
> Thank you so much for the kudos, they make my heart dance. Please leave a comment if you’re so inclined. They make my heart soar.


	12. North

Nicolò and Yusuf decided to stay in Damietta for the time being. They didn’t really have a solid plan for once they arrived in Alexandria, and life proved relatively comfortable for them at the inn. Most days they brought in enough fish and game that they could each afford room of their own, a fact Yusuf seemed very pleased about. Nicolò hadn’t minded rooming with him in the beginning; in fact it made the nights a little less lonely. He found that even though he no longer had to spend half the night keeping watch, his body had become accustomed to fewer hours of sleep. It was not as though he’d had Yusuf to talk to all night, but simply having him sleeping nearby had been comforting. But he supposed it was only natural that two grown men should have lodgings of their own. He supposed that would be how it goes when they arrive in Alexandria. 

This wasn’t what was bothering him.

What was bothering him was that Yusuf seemed different lately. Not withdrawn. Not reserved. The ready warmth Nicolò had come to know was as steadfast as it had always been. But something was different, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

They’d been there over a month. They still spent almost all of their time together, hunting, fishing, sword training, practicing Greek/Arabic/Zeneize. They still exchanged views on matters of the world in regard to their faiths and philosophies. They still swapped stories about their pasts. 

What Nicolò was sensing, but not recognizing, was that Yusuf had stopped looking him in the eye. That was it. He didn’t appreciate how much he was missing it, because he didn’t know he was missing it. 

But he was missing it. 

One evening when the air had turned crisp, Zane, the innkeeper, insisted on a hearty feast to welcome home his brother and new sister-in-law from their journey back from Mecca. Yusuf and Nicolò had worked all day to ensure that the whole village could be fed with their catch. Nicolò couldn’t deny the sense of pride and purpose he felt to provide for the new people in his life. He could imagine settling here for quite a long time, with Yusuf as his partner and companion. 

He felt content for the first time in a very long time. True there would be no Mass to provide, and he couldn’t see any need for evangelizing in this place. These were already a truly devout people. They were kind. They were dutiful and charitable. They were even well acquainted with Jesus, and revered him as a prophet. Nicolò had come to the revelation that the best way to demonstrate the goodness of what Christianity could... should be is to simply be an example of Christ’s teachings. Not to impose them, but just to live by them. 

So service had become his new mission. He watched with satisfaction as Zane’s family happily feasted on his contribution, and Yusuf’s as well. He watched as the two brothers conversed cheerfully and caught up on their days spent apart. He watched as Yusuf laughed along with them to hear stories of how Nadir, Zane’s brother, left for his Hajj pilgrimage in July, and did not return forthwith because he had met the woman of his dreams. 

It warmed his heart to see Yusuf’s smile on full display. There weren’t many things about Yusuf that didn’t warm his heart. He just had that effect, and he seemed to have it on most everyone. Women especially. Nicolò had to chuckle and shake his head a little, at yet another village woman vying for Yusuf’s attention from across the room. 

“It was an excellent feast,” Nicolò said merrily to Yusuf, coming to stand against the wall next to him. 

“It was,” Yusuf agreed with a smile, but kept his eyes forward. They met the flirtatious woman across the room briefly, but he looked away quickly. 

“Do you… not find her pleasing?” Nicolò asked, parroting the same question Yusuf had once asked him.

“That’s very funny,” Yusuf responded with a smirk, but still kept his eyes ahead. 

Nicolò watched him for a moment. 

“Are you alright?” He finally asked. 

“Yes,” he answered nonchalantly, “Why do you ask?”

Nicolò continued to watch him.

“You have not been yourself,” he said plainly.

Yusuf glanced Nicolò’s way momentarily and then back to the crowd.

“No, I’m alright,” he said.

Nicolò raised his eyebrows slightly.

“Are you sure?” 

Yusuf finally looked directly at him.

“Yes.”

Nicolò raised his eyebrows a tiny bit more.

“Are you truly sure?”

“Yes.”

He raised them just a hair more, and Yusuf couldn’t help but laugh.

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head.

“Then don’t lie,” Nicolò answered simply.

Yusuf let out a sigh and turned his head forward again. 

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” he said after a beat. 

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth. He thought he’d been doing a pretty good job acting normally, but he should have known Nicolò would be more observant than most people. 

It wasn’t like Yusuf to keep his feelings a secret. He’d never been bashful about telling someone, man or woman, when he found them alluring. But it was different with Nicolò, and not just because with him it was more than allure. (It was enchantment. It was captivation. It was magnetism.) There was also the fact that Nicolò had already promised his heart to someone else, to God. And this was, maddeningly, one of the things he adored about him.

“I’ve been having very vivid, very restless dreams,” he finally admitted quietly.

“…I have as well,” Nicolò said, his brow now furrowed slightly.

“Yes?” Yusuf asked curiously. 

He nodded. “What are yours about?”

“I keep dreaming of two women,” Yusuf started. “One is from the Far East. The other… may be Greek, I am not sure.”

Nicolò’s jaw clenched briefly. 

“She is taller,” he said.

“Yes,” Yusuf replied, almost in a whisper.

“They are both strong,” Nicolò continued. “Warriors.”

They were looking right at each other now, both bewildered.

“You too?” Yusuf asked.

“What do you think it means?” Nicolò responded.

“I don’t know.” Yusuf ran his hand over his head and then back to the front. “I used to dream of you too. Maybe they are like us.” 

This was another partial truth. Before they had made their truce in the desert, Yusuf had dreamed many times of Nicolò, but those dreams seemed to be visions of the man in his present. He could see him as he was, in Jerusalem. The rest of the truth was that he still had dreams of Nicolò once in a while, but these dreams were much more clearly fantastical. 

“Maybe…” Nicolò acknowledged.

“ _You two and your heavy talks!_ ” It was Zane. He’d boisterously wiggled his way between them and put his arms around both men’s shoulders. “ _Heavy talks all the time and secret glances all the time. Enough intrigue for one day. This is a day for celebration. Come!_ ”

They were both happy to oblige. The conversation had gotten quite weighty, and neither man knew at all what to make of this new revelation. Time marched on and they stayed comfortable with their new routine, in their new home. Yusuf made a conscious effort to be extra normal, whatever that might mean, and it seemed to placate Nicolò who didn’t bring up his change in demeanor again. 

Similarly, neither of them broached the subject of the women for nearly two months, though both still thought of them often. Now that they were alone at night, and regularly dreaming at the same time, they saw the women much more frequently, so it was only a matter of time before they would have to discuss them again. It was Yusuf who finally brought it up one day while they engaged in a scrimmage of swordsmanship.

“I think we are supposed to find them,” Yusuf said bluntly, thrusting his saber forward, as Nicolò shielded the blow with with the sword. 

“Find who?” Nicolò asked, pressing Yusuf’s advance.

“The women,” he said, pausing.

Nicolò paused too. He took a beat to catch his breath, as well as his thoughts on this abrupt topic.

“How would we do that?” He asked. They had no idea where these women might be. Each time he saw them, they were fighting a new battle, against a new army, in a new place. 

“We found each other,” Yusuf said, shrugging.

Nicolò shook his head and stepped forward with a mighty swing.

“We collided with each other…” he countered through a grunt as Yusuf blocked his advance, “many times over.”  
  
Yusuf beat Nicolò back and they sparred without speaking for a few minutes. Nicolò could sense that Yusuf was wrestling with his thoughts. And Yusuf knew he was projecting this into their fight and that Nicolò was slightly jolted by it. Typically, he went easy on Nicolò during practice, but not today. It was not lost on Yusuf that Nicolò was holding his own anyway. 

Nicolò glided his blade at Yusuf and then pushed repeatedly. Yusuf could only work defensively at first until the moment of opportunity presented itself, to parry and disengage. He took a step backward and held his arms out to his sides in peace. 

Nicolò stopped. Yusuf was clearly distracted. It was not like him to go so easy on him and it was really not like him to relent. 

“It just has to mean something.” Yusuf said soberly. 

But neither said anything more on the matter. Nicolò knew there was truth in what Yusuf was saying, and the truth was he felt it too. He suspected they would move on eventually, but he mourned the day that things would change between them. 

Winter turned to spring, and Yusuf didn’t mention the women again. If he had pressed the matter, Nicolò would have followed. He would follow Yusuf anywhere. But as neither man knew where to even begin looking, they bid their time until their visions might point them in the right direction.

As it happened, as the nights began to grow shorter, Yusuf woke one morning with the memory of the women standing outside an impressive basilica. It had a central dome, which resembled those of the Roman Empire. It reminded Yusuf of the buildings he had briefly studied in Alexandria. This suggested North would be a good direction to start with.

But he didn’t bring it up with Nicolò. He knew Nicolò had reservations about moving on, and he could understand why. On the road, they were in constant peril. Even though it seemed they didn’t have to worry about an ultimate death, this didn’t lessen the pain that came with each temporary death. The physical pain that plagued the one who died, and the emotional pain that haunted the one who lived. There was also the threat of being found out for what they were, and what might happen to them after. Yusuf imagined there were much worse things than dying.

And in truth, he didn’t disagree that they had a good thing going here. Yes, it was painful to keep his true feelings at bay, but not as painful as the idea of losing Nicolò all together.

So he kept his discovery to himself. 

As they’d made a habit of doing, they sat together at their table in the tavern that evening, long after they’d finished their dinner. Yusuf sketched in his book, lately it was vague images of the women. Nicolò read from one of the books Zane had loaned him as a means of practicing his Arabic. Both books, one a book of poetry, the other a book of fables, were hand-written heirlooms that had been passed down through Zane’s family, so Nicolò took extra special care to be gentle with the pages. He read to himself:

_I hadn’t told them about you,  
But they saw you bathing in my eyes.  
I hadn’t told them about you,  
But they saw you in my written words.  
The perfume of love cannot be concealed._

Yusuf looked up at the sound of him sighing, taking note of the befuddled expression he wore. 

“You seem distressed,” he said lightly. “Do you need help translating?”

“No. I think I understand,” Nicolò answered, scratching his head.

“Is it disturbing?” Yusuf asked.

“It is... beautiful.”

“Beauty makes your face contort this way?”

Nicolò just stared down at the book for a moment. 

“It’s overwhelming,” he admitted. “I can’t fathom feeling such passion and putting it in these words.”

Yusuf gazed at him warmly. 

“Your love is for God, Nicolò,”he said. “It doesn’t need to be flowery; it just needs to be sincere. Sometimes to woo a person, excess can serve a great purpose.”

“So you think this is insincere?” Nicolò gestured to the book.

“I didn’t say that.”

Nicolò ran his eyes over the pages some more.

“Listen to this one.” He read aloud this time, in Arabic: 

“ _My lover asks me:  
What is the difference between me and the sky?  
The difference, my love,   
Is that when you laugh   
I forget about the sky”_

He looked up at Yusuf, who kept his eyes turned down at the book but smiled lightly.

“It is very is beautiful,” he agreed. “May I?”

Yusuf held his hands out in request to peruse the pages. Nicolò turned the book and pushed it gently across the table to him. Carefully, Yusuf turned the delicate page. He couldn’t deny how it sent his heart soaring to hear Nicolò speak those words in Arabic. He skimmed his eyes over the page to replace that memory with something new, something less wistful. It didn’t work.

“Have you ever been in love, Yusuf?” 

He looked up. _Don’t lie_ , Nicolò once said to him. 

“… yes,” he nodded.

“And it felt like this?” Nicolò gestured to the book. Yusuf looked back down at the pages; he read the same lines again.

“Something like this,” he said quietly.

“Then these are not just beautiful words.” Nicolò frowned that befuddled frown again. “This is how people feel?”

“No.” Yusuf slid the book back to Nicolò. “I don’t think this is how most people feel. I think this… is special.”

Nicolò’s brow lowered again and he clenched the muscle in his jaw that always contracted when he was deep in thought.

“Maybe just stick to this,” Yusuf suggested pointing to the other book. He stood. “Fables will be simpler to grasp.”

“Where are you going?”

“I am exhausted,” he confessed. “I must retire. Goodnight.”

“ _Tusbah ala khayr, Yusuf._ ” Nicolò spoke in Arabic again as Yusuf made his to leave the tavern.

He stopped briefly, but did not turn. Nicolò watched him as he disappeared up the steps, before looking down again at the page Yusuf had been looking over. It read:

“ _Because my love for you_  
_Is higher than words  
I have decided to fall silent._”

Was this what had been bothering Yusuf? Was he love sick? Was he lonely? Was he yearning for romantic company? Nicolò supposed that would make sense. Yusuf was a very amorous and affectionate man. He deserved someone he could express those qualities to in full, someone he could be his true self with, without holding back, without keeping secrets. If one of these women were potentially his _ruwhi_ … 

There was a knock on Yusuf’s door. He stood from the bed, pulling on a tunic, and making to open it. He was perplexed to find his friend on the other side. 

“Nicolò.”

“I think we should do what you say,” he said hurriedly. 

“What I say…?”

“It is time we moved on to Alexandria,” Nicolò continued. “And when we arrive we must find a ship, one that will bring us North.” 

“Why North?” Yusuf asked warily. 

“I think that is where they are,” Nicolò said plainly. “Constantinople. Last night, I dreamed they were at the Church of the Hagia Sophia.”

Yusuf paused. His mind was spinning. He thought he had seen a drawing of the basilica before. That is where he recognized it. Nicolò was right, it was Constantinople. 

“Why the sudden decision?” He asked.

“It is like you said,” Nicolò responded. “It must mean something.”

Yusuf stared at Nicolò a few more seconds. There had to be more, but whatever the reason, Nicolò was clearly determined. He nodded. He would miss the days they spent here together, but they both knew they could no longer rest comfortably here, ignoring the pull they felt to find these women and the new information they had for how to find them. 

“Zane will be heartbroken,” Yusuf said bitter-sweetly.

Nicolò nodded before making his way to his own room. He couldn’t help but think that if Yusuf did fall in love with one of the women, Zane’s heart would not be the only one to break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of the poems are from Nizar Qabbani.
> 
> Writing this chapter was like pulling teeth. It did not flow easily. I think it was Joe. It was difficult to conceive him acting so closed off. But I do think he’d be the one to recognize his own feelings first, and also not want to spook Nicky. It’s honestly not one of my favorite chapters, but it turned out... fine. It’s a stop on their road, an important one, and I do think their road would have been long and winding. 
> 
> I did a lot of reading and researching to make sure the city I chose for the caravansary in previous chapters existed during this time. Then I never actually wrote the name of that city in the story. That’s fine. But then I apparently did zero research about Port Said, chose it for its location and discovered months later that it was established many centuries after the events of this story 🤦🏻♀️. Even if its possible it existed as a small city back then, it wasn’t called Port Said. So... I’m finally getting around to correcting that, and the city is now Damietta. When I go about writing how long it takes them to get from one place to another, I actually think about the distance and the pace they might go at to come up with that time. I think the way I wrote the story, changing the cities doesn’t create too much of a problem, but I guess I just wanted to make it clear how I put way more thought in the things that probably don’t matter to readers. Except when they’re obvious things, like using cities that didn’t exist 😆  
> Thank you for all the love, dear readers.


	13. Touch

The voyage from Damietta to Alexandria took them just under a week. The road proved lush and accommodating compared to the journeys behind them, so truthfully it could have taken even less time. But since the nights were not unkind as the weather started to warm, and they both felt a curious sense of nostalgia for camping again after all that time in the shelter of the inn, they felt no need to hurry. There were days they walked along beside their horses (Zane had graciously gifted them). There were nights they retired early just so they could talk face to face.

As they approached the city from the East, Nicolò felt a strange dread. It wasn’t the city itself, but the hidden unknown it represented. Things had been so complicated at first. And they had been so blissfully simple for so long. He didn’t mention it to Yusuf, whom he had no way of knowing felt the same. 

It was surrounded on all sides by a wall with several flanking towers, with entrance gates only to the south. There was no issue gaining passage, as hundreds of merchants passed through the city every day. They made way first through the industrial district, where they sold the horses to some farmers, and then the commercial market where Yusuf made a hefty earning by selling the chalice he’d been reserving for this very occasion. They walked along the streets of a quaint neighborhood, moving north toward the harbor, the lighthouse Pharos their literal beacon. 

The water was festooned with massive, majestic trading vessels of various designs, with sails of assorted shapes and heights, and all colors of the spectrum. The crews dressed in clothes calling to mind more cultures than either of them could count. As they ambled along the docks Yusuf eyed some of the captains and crews, unsure which would be wisest to join up with. He was certain there would be some adverse to taking someone like him on their crew. But there were certainly others that would be dangerous for Nicolò. As the thought crossed his mind, he saw out of the corner of his eye what resembled a soldier of the Caliphate, triggering the visual memory of Nicolò’s last gruesome death. But when he turned sharply to get a better look, he concluded his eyes, his fears, had been playing tricks on him.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said discreetly, “you must stay quiet in this place. Let me do the talking.”

“Why?” Nicolò answered him, returning the Arabic Yusuf spoke, as they’d been doing almost exclusively since leaving Damietta on Nicolò’s insistence.

“Just…” Yusuf cast his eyes around, searching for a delicate way to tell him.

“I cannot pass for Greek?” Nicolò asked, seemingly reading his thoughts. 

“It’s your accent,” he said gently and pursed his lips. “You have learned an impressive amount of Arabic… and Greek, but your accent betrays you. It screams Frank.”

“Genoese…” Nicolò frowned slightly, restraining his eyes from rolling at the slight.

“I know that but _they_ won’t,” Yusuf assured him, placing a supportive hand to his shoulder. 

“Which of these ships do you suppose?” Nicolò asked.

“That will take some careful questioning and consideration,” Yusuf responded, casting his eyes around. 

Nicolò followed Yusuf’s gaze. He understood the precarious situation they were in. It would not be easy to find a ship that would willingly take on both a European and a Maghrebi passenger. 

“I will stay here,” he said with a resolute nod, putting his hand to Yusuf’s shoulder too. “I will stay quiet.”

Yusuf did not want Nicolò to stay quiet. He yearned for a day when Nicolò would never stop sharing his magical thoughts, never stop asking his delightful questions, never stop offering his nurturing support. His heart ached at the request he’d had to make. But the smile beaming from Nicolo’s eyes, _how did he do that with just his eyes_ , made all of the regrets, all of the doubts, all of the dangers… all of the constraints fade away. For a moment it was just the two of them on that dock. For the briefest instant in time they were the only two people in the world. 

But they were not. Neither of them could see the man watching them from a few meters away. He was curiously eyeing Yusuf as he embraced the European man, and suspiciously eyeing Nicolò who matched his gesture. The man kept his eyes on Yusuf as he walked away from Nicolò. 

A few minutes passed, during which Yusuf meandered along the dock. He kept his head low and his ears open, listening for languages he could identify and determine to be safe. Arabic. Greek. Latin. Sabir. Hindi. Tamir. The list went on. Which vessel would be headed north? Which crew might have room to spare for them? Just as he was about to approach a captain who was overseeing the loading of crates onto their craft, he thought he’d heard someone calling out to him, but it would not have been Nicolò.

“Tayyib?”

He turned his head curiously toward the call, his heart accelerating in cautious alarm. He recognized the grinning man walking towards him as a childhood friend from Mahdia. 

“Al-Tayyib! It is you!” The man was on top of him now, pulling him in for a hug.

“Sami,” Yusuf acknowledged his old friend, slightly shocked to be recognized so quickly in this place. The man stepped back and looked him over. 

“I thought for sure my eyes were deceiving me,” he said joyously. He appeared just as jolted as Yusuf was, but happy nonetheless.

“What are you doing in Alexandria, Sami?” Yusuf asked conversationally. 

“I am captain of _The Easifat_ ,” his friend informed him, waving his hand in gesture at the ship nearby. His crew was loading crates of citrus fruits into the hull. 

“You are kidding,” Yusuf beamed proudly at his friend.

“No,” he beamed right back. 

“Well done Sami,” Yusuf exclaimed, clapping him on the back.

A few paces away Nicolò kept back out of the way, moving his scarf from his neck to his head in order to obscure his white face. He kept his eyes on Yusuf and this new man. Though he was out of earshot, he could tell through Yusuf’s body language that this man was not a danger to them. This did not stop him from staying vigilant.

“Tayyib,” Sami lowered his voice and turned him towards the edge of the dock, “we had heard you perished in Ascalon.”

Yusuf blinked and offered an amused, incredulous smile.

“No,” he responded through a chuckle. But Sami’s expression had turned serious. 

“The news was delivered to your family; I was there,” he pressed. A shadow passed over his face as the implications dawned on him. “What are _you_ doing in Alexandria, Tayyib?”

“Sami…” Yusuf spoke urgently. He knew his friend was suspecting desertion, and in the end he was not completely wrong. “I cannot explain, but you must act as though you haven’t seen me. You must carry on acting as though I had perished.”

“But why?”

He didn’t have an explanation. What could he say? That technically he did die? That truthfully he had already made the ultimate sacrifice many times over for an army he did not wholly belong to? That staying with the army and being found out as unkillable was more dangerous than staying and dying for their cause? He had not counted on running into anyone he knew, quite possibly not for the rest of his life. They had not come up with a story they could tell that would explain how they were still alive on this earth, and nowhere near the war they were meant to be fighting, and together. 

Sami was watching Yusuf closely as he tried desperately to come up with an answer. _Let me do the talking._ He pressed his eyes shut and laughed bitterly under his breath. Then he looked back to his old friend, who offered a benevolent nod. Sami had never known Yusuf to struggle to come up with the right thing to say. He must have known that if no words were coming, then there wasn’t a right thing to say. 

“Your secret is safe with me, Tayyib,” he said at last, “as is your way out of Egypt if that is your wish.”

The hope in Yusuf’s heart was legible on his face.

“There is a place for you on my crew.” Sami made it clear. 

“Where are you bound for?”

“Athens.” Yusuf actually grinned. “By way of Rhodes.” 

“I confess this is a supreme blessing of chance,” he stole himself a premature moment of relief. “Is there room for another?”

Sami kept his eyes firmly on Yusuf for a moment, his expression unreadable, before casting them off to the hooded figure watching them from nearby. Yusuf followed his gaze to Nicolò, whose piercing stare was pointed steadfast in their direction as well. 

“Tayyib,” Sami spoke shrewdly, as Yusuf turned back to him. “I know you are wont to take male lovers but… a Frank?”

“He is not a Frank, nor is he my lover.” Yusuf spoke firmly. “But he is a dear friend, and I will not go if he cannot follow.”

Sami paused, glancing again at Nicolò before letting out a sigh.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he said. It was clear to Yusuf that Sami would now carry on believing Nicolò to be the reason for Yusuf’s desertion. And, once again, this was not entirely untrue. He supposed he would have to live with it. 

“Is that a yes?” Yusuf asked as politely as he could. Sami chuckled at him,

“We leave at high noon,” he said, and gently clapped Yusuf on the arm once more. Yusuf responded by placing his right hand over his heart before Sami returned to supervising his crew. 

Yusuf made his way back to Nicolò, who held his palms up in hopeful query.

“Yes?” He asked.

“We are bound for Athens,” Yusuf affirmed.

Nicolò grinned and spoke in heavily accented Greek.

 _“Poly kalós_!”

Yusuf sighed through a smile and brought his hand wearily to his head.

It was a two day journey to Rhodes. Nicolò it turned out had a preternatural aptitude for life at sea, despite only ever sailing once before. He seemed to outbalance half the men who’d been crewing for years. He could swab the decks with more poise and speed than any other. He could lift and stack twice as many crates in half as much time. He mastered six of the seven most important nautical knots on the first try; the stopper knot took him two tries.

Yusuf took Nicolò’s lead, assisting him in whatever chore of the moment he chose to busy himself with. It was an easy way to meet two goals at once, spending time with him and watching his back. Because even though Sami seemed willing enough to trust in Nicolò’s benevolence on Yusuf’s word, there were at least a dozen other crewmen on this ship who would not necessarily share that trust. Not at first anyway.

But he was not at all surprised to watch how quickly Nicolò gained the trust of many of them. It couldn’t hurt that he spoke Arabic nor that he took care of a large portion of their duties. By the end of the first day, Yusuf found that he was only sticking by Nicolò for the one reason. For the only reason, really.

They slept in the crowded crew section of the hull. Their bunks were stacked one on top of the other. Nicolò slept above Yusuf. It seemed the hard physical labor of a full day’s seafaring work finally granted him the full nights sleep that had eluded him for so long. It was Yusuf now who found it difficult to surrender. For him it was more preferable to listen for the sounds of Nicolò’s breathing among those of the waves crashing against the bulkhead and the gales blowing above. He could tell that Nicolò was sleeping on his stomach; his arm draped down from his bunk, hand dangling just above the side of Yusuf’s head. He could reach out and touch it if he wished. 

He wished. 

He would wish for much more than that if he thought it would ever bring him hope and not just heartache. But tonight he simply wished to hold that hand. To feel his pulse under his own thumb. To caress the hardened calluses of his work-worn palm. To squeeze just once, letting him know that he was here and he would always be. 

But he did not wish to wake him. He recalled, as promised, how light a sleeper Nicolò was and how startled it made him to be woken unexpectedly. So he lay there on his back instead, watching, and listening.

On the morning they were due to arrive in Rhodes, Yusuf stood on the bow, watching as the bit of land on the horizon grew steadily larger, while Nicolò assisted the boatswain in readying the anchor. 

“First time in Greece?” A voice asked from behind him.

Yusuf turned to see Sami over his shoulder, who stepped forward to join him against the pulpit. 

“Yes,” Yusuf answered.

“It is a sight to see,” Sami proclaimed. “Many in fact.”

“I’ve found that most places are, if you keep your eyes open enough,” Yusuf responded lightheartedly. 

“That is certainly true,” was Sami’s response. He turned to watch his crew at work. “Your friend is the best deckhand I’ve ever had.”

Yusuf smiled to himself.

“That does not surprise me,” he admitted, turning too, watching Nicolò in the distance as he tied a perfect clove hitch. “He is dedicated in everything he does.”

“And he is just a friend.” Sami stated the premise he’d been told as if there had to be a missing bit of information. 

Yusuf kept his eyes on Nicolò. The premise _was_ ridiculous, he agreed, but not because of anything to do with Yusuf. 

“He is not _just_ anything.”

Sami waited a beat before he responded, his expression almost conveying pity. 

“Oh Tayyib,” he said. “You always did have a strange penchant for the impractical.”

He turned back to the water, and Yusuf matched his position. They watched the island get closer together for a few minutes. 

“I was sorry to hear about your mother,” Sami said, breaking the silence. 

Yusuf turned to him, taken aback by the comment. 

“What about my mother?” He asked. Sami’s expression turned to somber regret. 

“You didn’t hear?”

“Hear what?” Yusuf could hear nothing but the sound of his blood pounding in his brain. He was vaguely aware of the shape of Sami’s mouth as it formed the words he dreaded.

“She has died.”

He lived the next thousand years stuck in that moment, staring through his friend at the sea beyond, or at least it felt to him like a thousand years. He was pulled back by the vague sound of Sami speaking. 

“Tayyib, I’m so sorry,” he was saying. “I thought you’d heard, her husband would have written to you.”

“How…” his voice was failing him. For the first time he could ever recall, he didn’t have the words. 

“She was murdered, Tayyib.” Sami reported gravely. “She was found in an alley. She had been beaten, and robbed. And…”

Yusuf held his hand out to stop him. He did not wish to hear any more. His mother was dead. She had died a violent death, and not only wasn’t he there to protect her, but he hadn’t been there to mourn her, to bury her, to pray for her peace. 

“How long?” He asked quietly.

“Two years now.” 

Yusuf hung his head in grief and shame. Sami stood with Yusuf as long as he could, before he gave him a supportive pat on the shoulder and returned to his crew to oversee their docking. Yusuf remained. He kept imagining it over and over in his mind. Robbed and murdered. There was only one possession his mother owned that anyone would ever want to steal, and he already knew of one man who had always coveted it. In his most irrational fears, he never would have thought the man would be capable of killing her. But now that he’d learned the circumstances of her death, he knew it would only have been him

He stood alone for only a short while before another body came to stand next to him. He kept his eyes on the water. He did not need to turn to know who it was. 

“What is it?” Nicolò asked gently.

“My mother is dead,” he told him, keeping his voice as even as his nerves would allow.

“Yusuf…” Nicolò made a gesture as if to reach out to him, but stopped as if he thought better of it. 

“He killed her,” Yusuf spoke to the water. 

“Who?”

“My uncle,” he responded in the same even tone. He turned to Nicolò who stared back at him in horror. “It was him. I know it was him.”

Nicolò said nothing for a long while. This time he actually rested his hand atop Yusuf’s on the bulwark. Yusuf cast his heavy eyes down at the gesture. Of all the ways he wished to have Nicolò’s hand finally touch his again, this would not have been the way he’d choose.

“Yusuf…” Nicolò repeated, in the same gentle tone.

“I cannot continue to Athens,” Yusuf explained. He shifted his gaze back to his friend and looked him in the eye. “I have to go home, Nicolò.”

“Yes,” Nicolò responded firmly. “You do.”

His heart ached to speak his next thought, but he spoke it anyway.

“You don’t have to come with me.”

“Yes, I do.” Nicolò spoke with the same unwavering determination.

“He’s a dangerous man, Nicolò.” Yusuf warned. 

“So are we,” Nicolò affirmed. “And we have an advantage.”

Yusuf sighed. It was starting to seem that danger was going to be an unwelcome mainstay of their existence, but as Yusuf had said before, he would still not wish to put Nicolò in any unnecessary danger if he could help it. 

As if he was reading Yusuf’s thoughts, Nicolò squeezed his hand. It was as if _he_ was the one letting him know he was here, and that he would always be. 

Yusuf’s heart skipped a beat.

“I will not die,” Nicolò said. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... sometimes the words escape you and sometimes the characters seem to write themselves. There isn’t a lot of Nicky/Joe interaction here compared to other chapters, but this is certainly an example of the latter. 
> 
> Thank you to every person who’s taken the time to read, comment, and drop kudos. It is so nice to know what the story means to you. Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you’re reading something that doesn’t add up or isn’t historically/culturally accurate. I really do try to do my research before committing to something I have limited knowledge about, but it’s hard to know everything you don’t know. I’m open to feedback. 
> 
> Enjoy, dear readers, and thank you again!


	14. Boys

It would be a five day journey to Mahdia. They had to use a good portion of the money they’d made in Alexandria to buy their way aboard a Turkish spice trading vessel, which was currently empty of cargo, otherwise there would have been no room for them at all. It carried all the crew it needed though, so they were unsuccessful at trading service for their passage. This suited Yusuf just fine, as he had no interest in carrying out manual labor while he considered how to avenge his mother’s death. Nicolò, who preferred to keep busy, would have undoubtedly rather had something tangible to do, and not just for himself. 

He did not think it wise for Yusuf to wallow in his dark thoughts. Dark thoughts were not who Yusuf was. Dark thoughts would be an like an insidious poison to Yusuf’s heart, and Nicolò feared what they might do to him over time if left unchecked. He did his best to sit with Yusuf and talk with him as often as possible. Most days they could sit on deck, out of the way against the bulwark. Yusuf told Nicolò about his uncle. He told Nicolò about the necklace. 

It had been in his family for many generations, passed from father to son, and was traditionally given to their brides as a wedding gift. It had once belonged to Yusuf’s paternal grandfather, who then gifted it to Ibrahim, Yusuf’s father, as the oldest of the two sons. This of course fanned the flames of jealousy from the younger son, Fethi, who had already held a candle for his older brother’s betrothed. It was not the sentimental worth of the necklace that he coveted (nor much more than the woman’s outer beauty), but the monetary worth it carried. The charm was made of silver, which on its own would have collected a fair price. But the true value of it came from the markings on it roughly resembling the near extinct language of Tifinagh, as if they had been worn down over hundreds of years. The rareness of an artifact such as this one would be priceless in the day’s market, especially to the imperious Franks or Brits or Romans who were constantly stomping onto their lands. Few people in Madhia could still read it, and Yusuf suspected Fethi did not care what it said at all. But Ibrahim had told his wife when he bestowed it upon her that it read a passage from the Quran, which perfectly encapsulates what they were to each other. Ruwhi.

After Ibrahim died and Fethi married Nejla, his wife, Yusuf recalled on more than one occasion the two quarreling about the idea of selling the necklace as part of his gold trade, in service of his insatiable desire for wealth. Nejla never yielded on the matter though, and Fethi resorted to other means as necessary to keep himself in the comfort he preferred. Yusuf had known him to cheat out the people he’d done business with. He even suspected him of killing one or two. He should have been more wary of that, he thought. 

Nicolò listened patiently any time Yusuf felt the need to explain the immorality he always saw in Fethi. He listened as Yusuf told story after story of his uncle’s contempt for him, the verbal persecution, all when he was just a boy still. 

But whenever able, Nicolò would interject a question that steered him away to more positive things. It was not to distract him, but to provide respite for his heart. Yusuf’s mind had been spinning ever since they arrived in Rhodes. It was the only way Nicolò could think of to slow it down, even for brief intervals at a time.

“How did your parents meet?” He inserted himself. It was the fifth day, and they were sitting in the hull exactly where they’d been sleeping nights, as the winds and rain pounded above.

Caught between breaths suddenly off track, Yusuf stopped to pause and look at Nicolò. He wasn’t ignorant of what Nicolò was doing to him, for him, but neither was he determined to fight it. 

“The story goes that they met as children playing catch and kick,” Yusuf said finally. Nicolò waited for him to expand.

“That’s it?” He asked, when Yusuf stayed quiet. 

Yusuf hadn’t heard the story told in over twenty years, but still he knew it well. Well enough that he could tell it in his sleep, even after all this time.

“He teased her for being a girl trying to play with the boys,” he continued. “He would pull at her hair to try and chase her away. That just made her play harder until she out-scored every boy on the pitch. No victory was more satisfactory than the one she held over Baba. That is when he fell in love.”

“And when did she fall in love?”

“She says she was already in love from afar,” Yusuf explained. “And that is why she wanted to play.”

Nicolò chuckled. Yusuf smiled the first genuine smile Nicolò had seen these long, somber days. _Mission accomplished… for the_ _moment_. They sat side by side in silence for a while before Yusuf spoke again.

“What of your parents, Nicolò?” He asked, suddenly realizing how little he knew of them, if anything at all. “Are they still alive?”

Nicolò shifted and looked down at his knees, which he hugged tight against his chest, sitting on the floor. He maintained his light Nicolò smile. 

“I have no way of knowing,” he admitted quietly. “I never have.”

“You never speak of your youth,” Yusuf observed. 

“No.”

“Why?”

Nicolò hesitated. He felt ruffled and clumsy that he’d somehow let the conversation steer this way, from happier things. 

“The life of an orphan is not charmed... nor charming,” he finally admitted. “It’s not a happy story to tell.”

Yusuf frowned. 

“Were you harmed?”

“No,” Nicolò answered quickly and looked right at Yusuf. He smiled through a chuckle “No.”

Yes. 

There was abuse in the church, but Nicolò did not endure the kind that got into his head (or under his skin). The nuns used physical punishment to discipline the children, but he never got into enough trouble that earned him more than a few raps on the knuckles, or the occasional slap on the fanny, or the one withheld supper. This was all when he was very young. He’d learned quickly to conform in whatever way necessary to avoid any worse than that, and also to avoid the unwanted attention of the wrong sort of priest. He was lucky. He knew boys who endured much worse.

But neglect hurts in other ways.

“No,” he insisted one more time. “I was… lonely.”

Yusuf offered him a sympathetic smile. He had never considered that Nicolò would have been an orphan. He could not imagine growing up without his parents. True, he lost his father young, but he still had twelve years of memories to lean on. That Nicolò had no one all those years ago nearly broke his heart. He could understand with so much more empathy now why he would cling so dutifully to the church. The assertion that God loved him when no one else ever had must have been like a beacon of euphoria drawing him in. It must have been like opium.

Nicolò shook his head and gave another optimistic twitch of his mouth. 

“I am not lonely now,” he assured him. 

Yusuf nodded and gave Nicolò a supportive pat on his knee, and stood.

“It sounds like the rain has stopped,” he attested.

“It feels as though we’re slowing too,” Nicolò added as he also stood up. 

They climbed up above deck, where indeed the rain had stopped and the sun was peeking its way through the gaps in an overcast sky. Yusuf stepped away to speak with the first mate. Nicolò stood on the spot and kept his eyes firmly planted on Yusuf. It was a habit he noticed was becoming more and more common. Not a habit, really, an impulse. He simply couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off him. And he didn’t want to. He thought he could look at the man for the next thousand years and never tire of the way his brown eyes sparkled when he spoke about the things he loved, or the way the freckles on his cheeks resembled the patterns of the stars, or the way his curly hair framed his beautiful face like a halo. 

It was not the first time he’d been attracted to a man. He had had a brief boyhood crush on a young Deacon of his diocese when he served as an alter boy. He’d convinced himself it was because of the unique compassion the man showed him and the other boys compared to the nuns and priests. When he found himself admiring more than just kindness, things like his hands and his jawline, Nicolò started actively paying more attention to the girls around him. A few experimental, but ultimately meaningless trysts later, he came to the decision that romantic love was not for him and informed the leader of his diocese of his intentions to join the clergy. 

And now here he was, certain that love was what he was feeling, and completely petrified with what to do with it. Yusuf was a vibrant, talented, worldly man who could have his choice of beautiful women. What would an unpracticed, self-denying man of the cloth have to offer that beyond friendship? It would be foolish to hope for it. He did not wish for things to change if he was not certain they would change for the better.   
  
There were plenty of things he was certain of. He was certain he had never been happier than when he was with Yusuf. He was certain that simply being around him was now and would always be enough for him. He was certain he would follow Yusuf anywhere. He was certain they were running head first into more peril than they’d seen in quite some time. He was certain he would die for him.

He was certain he would not break his promise that he wouldn’t. 

Yusuf came back to stand with him along the Port as the North African coast drew nearer. They watched in silence as the harbor came into view. The same sense of dread Nicolò felt walking into Alexandria returned threefold. Yusuf’s expression conveyed only furious resolve. 

“Yusuf.” Nicolò spoke carefully to him. “This will not bring her back.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

Yusuf looked squarely at Nicolò before turning back the the harbor. The dark thoughts were back. The poison was taking hold. 

“He has to pay a price for what he did, Nicolò,” Yusuf said plainly.

“And what price will you have to pay, Yusuf?”

Yusuf blinked and his eyes softened for the briefest of moments. He clenched his jaw slightly and kept his determined gaze pointed steadily forward. Even so, Nicolò could see underneath his steely exterior. Yusuf was fighting back. The resolve was there. Even the fury was plain to see. But Yusuf, the good one, the man who lived by love, was still in control. He would do what he planned to do, but love, not revenge, was ultimately what was driving him forward. 

And love was ultimately what was driving Nicolò forward too.

“Are you still with me?” Yusuf asked.

“There was never a question.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a short chapter. I didn’t originally intend for this to be a stand alone chapter, but there was a little bit of background left to tell and I wanted to establish Nicolò’s feelings firmly before they arrived in Mahdia. It’s certainly obvious he’s felt something for a long time before this, but here he finally acknowledges them for what they are. It’s not the same troubling revelation Yusuf had, but more of a resigned lamenting acceptance. 
> 
> I tried hard not for it to come off as the obvious cliché of the repressed priest who was suppressing his gay thoughts. I think Nicky is such a deeply unique soul that it was always going to take a very special person for him to bother with love at all (especially in this conception of him growing up never really knowing it to begin with). I hope this comes off as intended. 
> 
> The next chapter is likely to be a doozy so I don’t know exactly when it will be finished. On the flip side, I didn’t expect to have a new chapter up tonight, so bonus!


	15. Pairs

It turned out to be a beautiful afternoon on the North African coast. Two men sheltered behind the cover of an ancient archway just uphill from the marketplace. The dark haired man watched the crowd bustling along, scanning the merchants for a familiar face. The lighter haired man was turned away from him, probing the city, watching out for danger. His right hand gripped the pommel of the sword swinging from his hip. His left was absentmindedly rubbing at his temple under the wool of the chechia he wore.

“He’s there,” Yusuf said gravely. Nicolò came to stand next to him and followed his gaze into the bazaar. Fethi was not difficult to spot. He and Yusuf resembled one another significantly. He was not quite as tall, and his face carried many more lines, but they had the same dimples in their cheeks, and the same round eyes, deep and dark as the night. Fethi’s did not emote the same warmth as Yusuf’s though. Even as he smiled at the woman purchasing barley from him, Nicolò could tell, though from afar, this was a disingenuous smile, for business only. 

“He’s a grain merchant,” Nicolò mused aloud, seemingly surprised by the information.

“By day,” Yusuf granted him, skepticism clear in his tone. He had known his uncle to align himself in any number of trades, some reputable but many not. When he was a child, he always remembered Fethi working in the bazaar to sell the fish his father caught. After his brother died, he had businesses with precious metals, silk, and spices. But Yusuf was also aware of him working closely with mortuaries and foreign apothecaries, for which he suspected him of trading in stolen organs. He had also known him to frequent the company of prostitutes, and Yusuf did not suspect him of paying for their services so much as pimping them. And occasionally news came of the odd business associate gone missing, never heard from again.

Yusuf sighed watching his uncle, irritated at the evidence that the man, even after all these years, always managed to prosper. He was suddenly vaguely aware of Nicolò fidgeting behind him and shot a passing glance in his direction to confirm as such. 

“What’s the matter?” He asked.

Nicolò frowned back, and took his hand quickly away from his head. He didn’t speak at first, but when Yusuf’s questioning look lingered, he finally admitted, “I do not like hats.”

“So take it off,” Yusuf chuckled lightly. “You don’t have to wear it.”

“You said it would help me to blend in,” Nicolò reminded him.

“It doesn’t.” Yusuf reached out and removed the red chechia from Nicolò’s head. It was unfortunate, as he thought it made him look incredibly endearing. But it most definitely did not help him to blend in. Their first order of business after disembarking from the Turkish ship was to find new clothes to wear. This was meant to serve the duel purpose of lessening the stench of a week at sea they carried, and to stick out a little less. Yusuf, in his slate blue silk sarouel and farmla over a white sadra, fit in perfectly. The same ensemble on Nicolò, even with the tan color being much less conspicuous, made him look even more out of place than he had before. Yusuf thought the hat would help, but it seemed to be a lost cause. 

“You never minded the kufiya,” he submitted, almost as a question. 

“No,” Nicolò admitted, leaning against the archway, gazing down into the crowded bazaar. 

“How is this different?” Yusuf asked, smiling, eager for another glimpse into the man’s mind.

“The kufiya is like a hug for my head,” Nicolò explained simply.

“And this is not?” Yusuf placed the hat on his own head and placed his hands on his hips. 

“No,” Nicolò answered in the same simple tone. “It is more like a vise.”

He turned to Yusuf, frowning slightly because he knew what he was saying probably sounded dramatic, and was not making much sense to him, but he found that he had to smile at the sight of his friend. He looked completely dashing in the attire of his homeland, and the hat completed the look like a bolt to the heart. Nicolò suspected, in all likeliness, that he would look dashing in whichever clothes he wore. 

Yusuf shook his head, but kept his smile. He marveled at the fussiness he’d never seen in Nicolò before. There he goes again, surprising him all the time. 

“He’s on the move,” Nicolò nodded toward the market.

Side by side, they watched as Fethi gathered up what was left of his grain supply and darted carefully through the crowd, veering down a side alley.

“This way,” Yusuf said, making haste along the street, moving in Fethi’s general direction. Nicolò followed.

Wordlessly, they raced through the village, stopping to hide at corners to catch on to Fethi’s next turn. Nicolò appreciated Yusuf’s omniscient command of the city streets, and that he instinctively knew which way the man would go next without tailing him directly. 

As the sun was sinking over the buildings in front of them, Nicolò and Yusuf continued to travel west, as Fethi did also, one or two streets over. He finally stopped at a small hovel on the outskirts of the city. They watched while he spoke briefly to a man outside before a horse-led, covered pull cart appeared from around a corner. 

Yusuf watched from the shadows as one by one, more than a dozen men and women were escorted out of the building and into the cart by another man. They were of all ages, and many appeared to be from neighboring lands. One boy looked barely old enough to shave. When the last of them were loaded into the cart, Fethi instructed an armed man to secure the heavy wooden barricade bracket across its back doors.

“He’s really branched out,” Yusuf breathed darkly. Next to him, a shadow passed over Nicolò’s face. 

“He’s selling them?”

If it were any other man, Yusuf would have given him the benefit of the doubt. They could very easily be jumping to conclusions. These could be refugees, perhaps en route to a sanctuary. Maybe they were simply weary travelers, resting for a brief stop. But Yusuf knew his uncle too well.

“Yes.”

“We are not letting that happen, right?” Nicolò stared at him, his face more serious than Yusuf had ever seen. Even when they were at war with one another. 

“Not a chance, Nicolò,” he assured him. He unsheathed his saber and appraised it momentarily before he sensed movement beside him. When he turned back, Nicolò was gone.

“Nicolò wait!” Yusuf hissed, running to catch up to the man who was already bolting towards the cart. He stopped and turned to Yusuf, questioningly. 

“Why?” 

“No, I don’t mean wait, _stop_.” Yusuf said, catching up to him, with a slight smirk. “Just… wait for me.”

“Oh.”

They ran after the cart together, gaining on it quickly, as its width demanded a careful pace to navigate the narrow streets. Nicolò jumped onto the back of the cart first, extending a hand back for Yusuf who jumped up next grabbing hold of him. They exchanged a quick glance to ensure that one another was solid. Yusuf nodded and together they lifted the barricade bracket off the doors, letting it fall to the ground behind them. They could hear the muffled, worried cries of the people inside from from behind the doors. It was Nicolò who pulled the door open first, and the abductees gasped at the sight of him. Yusuf opened his door next, putting a finger to his lips. He spoke to them quietly, first in Arabic, then in Berber, and finally quite crudely in Nobiin for good measure.

“We will not hurt you; we are here to help you.” he stated as many times as it took to ease their worried expressions. One by one, he and Nicolò cut the binds from around their wrists and helped them down from the cart as it continued to move. 

“Yusuf…” Nicolò spoke apprehensively as the newly freed captives huddled themselves together on the road behind them. He was no doubt thinking the same thing Yusuf was. They were freed… but now what? 

“Bless you,” the last man in the cart whispered to them, grabbing Yusuf’s hands and shaking them gratefully. “Bless you both.”

“You must keep moving west for as long as the night will protect you,” Yusuf instructed. “We will see to it that these men do not come after you, but...”

“I will see them to safety,” the man assured Yusuf. “I am a hunter. I know these lands well, and I know where to seek refuge.”

Yusuf shook the man’s hand once more, and handed him a dagger. Nicolò helped him down off the cart. The man rushed to the huddled mass and quickly escorted them into the shadows. For a long extended moment, they both watched the spot the abductees disappeared from as it shrank in the distance. Yusuf turned to Nicolò, who he noted was quirking his lips just so. 

“What?” He asked. Nicolò turned to him, but did not answer. “You’re smiling. What?”

He shrugged, 

“That felt good,” he replied. 

“Yes,” Yusuf nodded, and he gave Nicolò an amiable pat on the shoulder.

They each pulled a door closed and sat back inside the cart. Wherever Fethi was heading, they would be there to witness his dismay when he realized his cargo was missing. They would be there to put an end once and for all to Fethi’s nefarious business dealings. True, he was only one man in a world of nefarious men, but one man was a good place to start.

When they sensed the cart had stopped, Yusuf peered through a gap in the side of the wall and noted they were back at the harbor. It was not a major port like Alexandria had been. Most of the boats were small, fishing skiffs, but he could see through the darkness and the fog, a larger vessel anchored off shore, and a man, Spanish by the look of him, standing by a large rowboat. Fethi approached the man, looking pleased. 

Nicolò found another gap next to Yusuf. He was not watching Fethi, but instead was counting the number of armed men employed to see this deal through. Two men, the same two who had been with Fethi on the outskirts of town, were making their way back to the cart. Nicolò turned to the doors, readying himself, his sword drawn. 

“I’ll take the big one,” he said with determination.

“Fine,” Yusuf answered, not wanting an argument before the brawl. Nicolò had promised he would not die. If he broke that promise, they could have the argument later. 

As the sounds of footsteps approached the cart, Yusuf could hear the confused muttering of the two men outside that the barricade had been removed. He shot Nicolò a meaningful look in order to sync their movements. They took advantage of that moment of surprise to throw the guards off even more. Together, they kicked each door open and jumped out from the shadows of the pull cart.

The skirmish was quick. Nicolò, true to his word, took his guard out in less than a minute before coming to Yusuf’s aid to help finish his own adversary off. It was as though the man had gone feral. All of the guilt and restraint Yusuf saw over the last several months stepped aside to reveal a glimpse of the warrior he met in Jerusalem so long ago. Only this warrior was much more skilled with a blade. As they stood over their opponents, catching their breaths, Yusuf quirked a wary eyebrow at Nicolò.

“What?” He asked.

“If your sword-thief friend could see you now,” Yusuf reflected aloud. 

“Not my friend,” Nicolò asserted. His posture stiffened suddenly and he shifted to a ready stance, as Yusuf heard footsteps approaching from behind him. He turned on the spot, readying his saber as well.

Fethi turned the corner, flanked by four more armed guards and the Spaniard with his own two henchmen. Two on eight. These were not great odds, Yusuf thought, but as Nicolò had pointed out, they had one very significant advantage. 

Before Yusuf even realized it, Nicolò was already engaged in a combat with two of Fethi’s guards. The European tradesman was shouting at Fethi in Spanish, but Fethi was paying him no mind. His attention was rapt, first at the empty cart, and next fixedly upon Yusuf. 

“You, boy,” he sneered at his prodigal nephew.

“Not a boy anymore,” Yusuf said, swinging his saber in preparation. 

“I heard you fell in Palestine.” He laughed. “Pity it was only a rumor.”

“Pity for you,” Yusuf retorted. The sound of blades meeting one another pierced his ears. He wanted badly to turn, to know how Nicolò was fairing, to fight by his side. But here in front of him was the reason they were both here, and he could not stray from this mission. Nicolò would not have it. 

“I see,” Fethi said, casting a quick eye to the skirmish happening nearby, to the white man fighting for Yusuf. “You’ve returned to Mahdia after all these years, in the company of European filth, to… what? To kill your own kin?

“To kill my mother’s murderer,” Yusuf corrected him. He stepped forward, swinging his saber mightily, but was headed off by one of Fethi’s remaining two guards. 

“My pitiful nephew has gone quite deranged it seems,” Fethi mused aloud stepping back as Yusuf battled with the two men. He spoke to them next before turning back to the water. “Put him out of his misery, won’t you?” 

The Spaniard watched the fighting taking place, before stalking off angrily in Fethi’s wake. He was shouting again, seemingly demanding to know where his cargo was, and informing Fethi he would not be paid if he did not deliver. Fethi turned abruptly toward him and shoved a dagger straight through his ribs into his heart. The Spaniard stared bewildered at the man, who reached into his pocket with his free hand, removing a pouch of coin. He pulled the dagger from the man’s body as it dropped to the ground. The Spaniard’s two henchmen had not taken note of this, as they had replaced one of the fallen Maghrebi guards fighting Nicolò, who was now working desperately to stave off three men. 

Yusuf on the other hand, had no patience for fighting the men in front of him. His mind was only on Fethi. He managed to swing a devastating blow to one of his opponents, while Nicolò mirrored his move several paces away on another. Out of the corner of his eye, Yusuf saw Fethi unhitching one of the two horses. Impatiently, he punched his second opponent in the eye, knocking him unconscious, before racing after Fethi just as he was riding away. With haste, Yusuf unhitched the horse’s partner, mounted him, and charged after his uncle. 

“Yusuf!”

Nicolò abandoned his fight, which was now only against the two Spanish guards, to sprint after Yusuf on foot. The two Spaniards were only now just taking note of their leader’s demise, and were too preoccupied with this to immediately chase after Nicolò.

On horseback, Yusuf flanked Fethi, who led them straight to the moonlit beach. As they rode North along the shore, he entreated his horse to career with all its might, catching up to Fethi’s beast so that one well-timed swing of his saber effectively knocked the man to the ground while his horse continued on its path. Yusuf slowed his own horse and dismounted swiftly. 

Uncle and nephew faced one another, several paces apart, two sabers at the ready. 

“You truly intend to kill me, boy?” Fethi asked. 

“I’ve never been more intent on anything,” Yusuf answered. He lunged forward, swinging his blade. Fethi warded off the blow and shuffled his feet to the side. The two men circled each other slowly. 

“If your poor mother could see what you’ve become,” Fethi goaded as they danced, “a crazed man fixed on revenge for a crime of his own imagining, at his side a vile Frank bewitched to do his bidding in battle, no doubt in the bedroom as well. She would be appalled.”

“She would be delighted,” Yusuf countered. Because lately he had started to realize that his mother had probably always known what he was only just now appreciating as fact, that he would never have truly been happy to marry a woman. That Yusuf’s heart and soul would most certainly someday find its match in another man. She would have been absolutely overjoyed to know that Yusuf had finally found that match.

“But she is not here to see it,” Yusuf continued, “because you stole her life from her.”

Yusuf swung again, this time slicing into Fethi’s arm, but Fethi took his own swing, just barely missing Yusuf’s face. He stepped back and twirled his saber ostentatiously. Anger was burning in Yusuf’s chest. 

“And why would I kill her?” Fethi asked in defense. “Nejla, my beautiful wife. I loved her. True, she did have some… distasteful views of the world, and passed them on to her wretched child. But kill her?”

“How much did you get for it?” Yusuf asked, standing to his full height. 

“I see,” Fethi said. “You think I killed my beloved wife for monetary gain.”

“Why not,” Yusuf said, swinging again. Fethi shielded the strike with his own blade. The two al-Kaysani men were nose to nose. “It’s the only reason you’ve ever done anything.”

“Except for marrying your mother,” Fethi sneered. “That was just for fun... and to irk you.”

Yusuf kicked the man away, knocking him momentarily off balance before sending a punch to his jaw. Fethi fell all the way to his back onto the sand. Yusuf was vaguely aware of his name being called from the darkness. It was Nicolò. He was alive. He felt a momentary wave of relief, letting out a breath he didn’t know he was figuratively holding. But his attention was still rapt on the man in front of him. The punch and Fethi’s fall to the ground had knocked loose the chain from under his robes. 

Yusuf stepped forward, placing his saber at his uncle’s neck, and then tracing it down to his chest, where lay his mother’s necklace. The two kinsmen made eye contact. Nicolò stopped running, several paces from them.

“I don’t understand.” Yusuf said.

“You understood perfectly,” Fethi answered with effort, wincing through his bloodied nose. 

“Why do you still have this?” Yusuf demanded. “Why didn’t you sell it?”

“Don’t go accusing me of sentimentality boy,” Fethi said. “The truth is I’ve yet to meet a buyer who didn’t outbid the last. I have a number in mind, when I hear it, I’ll sell it.”

His answer, though in perfect keeping with Fethi’s character, somehow disgusted Yusuf even more. Behind Nicolò the two Spanish guards were running onto the beach, followed closely by Fethi’s sole surviving henchman. Yusuf and Nicolò exchanged a brief glance, both serving to check in with one another, and to communicate, “I’ve got this.” As Nicolò turned to meet up once again with his opponents, Yusuf inched slightly closer to his uncle.

“You’ll never be satisfied with any number,” he accused. “You’ll never stop hurting anyone and everyone around you to get what you want, and it will never be enough for you. Stand, Devil, so that I may kill you honorably.”

Yusuf stepped back and lowered his sword momentarily. Fethi eyed him warily before bringing himself to his feet with much effort. In his eyes, Yusuf saw the hint of acceptance of what was about to happen to him. This did not lessen Yusuf’s resolve. 

With the might of ten men, Yusuf lunged forward and thrust his saber at the man. Fethi countered his strikes, but in his weakened state, he was no match for his nephew. Yusuf pushed and thrusted, blow after blow. Fethi maintained his ground longer than Yusuf would have expected, but finally dropped to his knees after Yusuf struck him across the chest. 

Yusuf kicked Fethi’s saber away and followed closely at the man’s heels, as he attempted to crawl away from him. As they neared a large bit of driftwood, Yusuf chanced a glance in Nicolò’s direction. 

He marveled at Nicolò’s fighting. He watched him parry one swing and then another in a dance like motion. He was fighting only two men now. He must have finished one of the others off, Yusuf noted. At his feet, Fethi’s crawl was slowing, but relentless. He was in no rush to kill the man. The longer he suffered the better, as far as Yusuf was concerned. 

In that moment, something drew Yusuf’s attention back to Nicolò. It sounded as if more weapons were involved. More duels taking place. More blades joining the fray. Yusuf and Nicolò caught one another’s eye in pure bewilderment. Two women, the same two women they’d been dreaming about for months, were now fighting the two Spaniards with absolute grace and poise, as if they were angels sent from above. Nicolò watched from a few strides away, frozen on the spot. When he turned back to Yusuf, he was alarmed suddenly by what appeared to be a shadow stocking behind him.

“Yusuf, watch out!” He shouted as loud as his voice would allow. 

It was too late. A blade had been swung from Fethi’s missing henchman, and the darkened form of Yusuf’s body dropped to the ground behind the driftwood. Nicolò winced. He couldn’t be sure, nor did he want to be, but his eyes thought they saw… 

There wasn’t time to think about it. Yusuf’s slayer was running as fast as he could towards the city. Nicolò would not let him get away. He raced after the man, catching him well before he made it to the street, and tackling him to the sand. He waisted no time. He would not get carried away with needless, self-indulgent violence. Yusuf needed him. He pulled his dagger from the sheath across his chest and sliced the man’s neck. He didn’t even wait long enough to watch the man die. He had more important things to worry about.

Nicolò stalked across the beach toward where Yusuf had fallen, but he met Fethi first, still crawling in all fours, leaving a stream of blood in his wake. Nicolò crouched down in front of him, and their eyes met for the first time. He was right before, they were like Yusuf’s eyes, but not nearly as special. 

“So finish me off, turncoat,” Fethi dared him. 

“You’re already dead,” Nicolò weighed. “Your wounds will not allow your life to continue for much longer. I will not ease your suffering by helping it along.”

“You’re just…here to watch?” Fethi caughed up a bit of blood.

“Yes,” he responded in his simple Nicolò way. “So that I may describe to Yusuf how you breathed your last breath. And so that he may know he is the one who ended your life.”

“Yusuf is dead,” Fethi choked out. 

“For the moment,” Nicolò agreed. He cast his eyes toward the driftwood, where he could see only Yusuf’s legs. _For the moment,_ he repeated to himself silently. Fethi coughed some more.

“Would you like me to pray for you?” Nicolò asked. 

Fethi said nothing, but only spat at Nicolò’s feet. But Nicolò closed his eyes and said a small prayer anyway. He would not tell Yusuf. It was not for him. It was not even for Fethi. 

When the man had expelled his last labored breath, Nicolò carefully removed the chain from around his neck. He stood and slowly walked toward Yusuf’s body. His legs, still unmoving, told Nicolò it was still just a body. As he rounded the side of the driftwood, he felt his heart jump into his throat in trepidation, and at the sight of his friend he convulsively turned away, dropping to his knees and heaving into the sand. 

Somehow, though he will never recall the details of moving from that spot to be with him, Nicolò willed himself back to his feet and stepped back over to Yusuf. He dropped back down to the ground and sat against the driftwood, taking Yusuf’s hand in his own. He could not look at his head. It was not where it was supposed to be. Instead it lay in the sand nearby, thankfully clouded in darkness. 

“Yusuf,” Nicolò heard someone saying. It was him, but his voice seemed hollow and distant, as if unattached to his self. Indeed nothing seemed attached to this world at the moment. Without Yusuf here, Nicolò was untethered from reality. In this moment he was only a hand, holding Yusuf’s.

I’ _m sorry say that again? It just makes me wonder. If your head would reattach. Don’t you wonder too? No. And I’m not helping you find out._

His thoughts were spinning. Yusuf was not here to ease them with his smile. He felt angry. How could he ever have so callously shared such a horrifying thought?

_You are not responsible for keeping at bay every death that may find me. I would still stop it if I could._

He had not stopped Yusuf’s death. He had watched it happen. He had done everything in his power to keep Yusuf’s enemies at bay, and he had failed. 

_Are you still with me? There was never a question._

Nicolò closed his eyes, and tears fell to the sand.

“I am still with you, Yusuf,” he whispered. “I’m here. Come back. Come back to me.”

“ _Skata_.” A voice said from above. This one was not his own. This one belonged to a woman. She had cursed. Despite his limited grasp of the Greek language, Nicolò recognized that word. It was always easiest to learn the naughty words first. 

Nicolò looked up and saw a kind looking Asian woman approaching him, crouching beside him, offering a gentle, consoling smile. She was reaching out for Yusuf’s severed head and pulling it closer to where it should lie. 

“Help me,” she said, taking Nicolò’s hands and placing them on either of Yusuf’s cheeks, so that he was holding his head firmly in place at the base of his neck. “Hold him like this. It will take some time, but we can help it along.”

“Who are you?” Nicolò blinked at her. 

“My name is Quynh.” She answered plainly. “What is yours?”

“Nicolò.”

“Nicolò, this is Andromache,” Quynh informed him. Nicolò looked up to see the other woman from his dreams standing nearby. She was watching Yusuf’s head very closely.

Nicolò followed her line of sight, gazing for the first time at Yusuf’s lifeless face. His heart shattered.

“He is going to come back?” He asked, almost fearing to hope for it.

The woman called Andromache was now crouching at his side. 

“He’s already working on it,” she assured him. Nicolò looked quickly from her back to Yusuf. “See?”

The flesh of his neck was reknitting slowly. The color was returning to his pallid face. The blue of his lips was turning a deep shade of wine. It was several minutes, but when Nicolò saw Yusuf’s chest rise, they all let out a collective sigh of relief, as Yusuf coughed and gasped for air.

“Yusuf!” Nicolò exclaimed. 

He continued to cough, and Nicolò gently cradled his head in his lap, looking desperately into his eyes, grateful beyond measure to see the twinkle returning to them. 

“Well that answers that age old question,” the tall woman Andromache said as she stood. 

“Yeah,” Quynh agreed, still crouching, still watching Yusuf in amazement.

“You weren’t sure?” Nicolò shot an affronted glance at Quynh, and then at Andromache. 

“Not completely,” Andromache admitted, in a slightly condescending tone “but now we are.”

Yusuf was grasping at Nicolò’s shirt, still struggling to breathe properly, but taking in small gasps of air.

“I’ve got you, Yusuf,” Nicolò said, looking into the man’s eyes and running his hand through his hair. “You’re safe.” 

Quynh stood now and placed herself at Andromache’s side. 

“Who are you?” Nicolò asked again, looking up at them. 

“You don’t recognize us?” Andromache asked him. 

“Of course I do,” Nicolò said. “But I still don’t know who you are.”

He helped Yusuf come to a sitting position. He was starting to breathe a little easier.

“I’m Andromache, this is Quynh,” she replied. “You’re Nicolò… and Yusuf?”

The two men now sat side by side, backs against the driftwood, staring at the two mysterious women. Yusuf still leaned heavily on Nicolò. 

“We’d have gotten to you sooner,” Quynh explained, as Andromache came to the other side of Yusuf to help Nicolò bring him to his feet, “but you two wouldn’t stay put. Every time we set out a course, you boys changed directions on us.” 

“We were in one place for nearly six months,” Nicolò argued that point. 

“Yeah well…” Andromache grunted, wrapping Yusuf’s arm around her shoulder, “we got a bit tied up with some little wars here and there.”

“You haven’t answered his question,” Yusuf croaked, staring at Quynh. He didn’t dare turn his head. But Nicolò turned to look at right at him, a smile dancing on his lips, relief multiplying in every moment. “Who are you?”

“He speaks,” Quynh teased. 

Nicolò cast a meaningful look at Quynh. 

“Just you wait,” he said. 

He pulled Nejla’s necklace from his pocket and gently placed it over Yusuf’s head. Yusuf looked directly into Nicolò’s eyes while he did so. He did not look at the charm. He didn’t need to. He knew what it was, just as he knew what it said. 

Nicolò pulled Yusuf’s other arm over his shoulder, and they walked the beach, three together and one at their side. The charm bounced against Yusuf’s chest, and he smiled to himself, remembering the inscription. 

_And we created you in pairs._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly this chapter was labor intensive. I’m the first to admit that writing action is not my strong suit, but I did try my best. 
> 
> One thing I loved about The Old Guard was Gina’s take on violence. I felt like it was never gratuitous for the sake of gratuity, that she always showed respect for human life. I have a similar take of graphic violence, so my description of Yusuf’s injury was very purposefully curbed.
> 
> All that said, phew! I’m so pleased to have finally conquered this one. I knew the whole time it would probably take the longest to write. Most of what’s left is pretty clear in my mind.
> 
> As always thank you so much for the kudos and comments. They mean the world to me. Have a great day/evening/night, Readers!


	16. Immortals

“Three _thousand_ years?”

“About that, yes.”

Yusuf stared at Quynh. He had only recently started to wrap his head around the possibility that their mysterious super healing abilities might actually be more than that. He and Nicolò had never discussed what it might mean if they were also no longer growing older, but Yusuf had started to suspect it. Not enough time had really passed to know one way or another. Quynh pretty much proved the theory just by answering how long she and Andromache had known one another. 

“How _old_ are you?” Yusuf couldn’t stop himself. He was shamelessly gaping at the women in complete awe. 

“I’d been roaming maybe fifty, sixty years when we met so…” Quynh shrugged as if to say, _you do the math._

Both men looked expectantly at Andromache. 

“I honestly lost count,” she said. 

“She’s at least twice my age,” Quynh reported, “… _still_.”

Andromache gave the woman a pointed look, to which Quynh responded playfully, “well, you are.” 

The four of them were walking back through the city in the dead of night. After Yusuf had finally healed enough to speak and breathe normally, and Nicolò was satisfied that he could walk unaided, they exchanged a quiet speculation with one another over the fate of the captives they had rescued. _What captives_ , Andromache had asked. They explained to the women about the events from earlier in the evening, and on Andromache’s insistence ended up venturing back to the outskirts of the city to see to it that the group of people they’d set free from Fethi’s capture had indeed made it to safety. They had. 

True to his word, the hunter had kept them all safe from harm and escorted them west into the desert. Traveling by Fethi’s horse cart, the foursome of immortals caught up with them only a few miles outside of the city, and saw them safely to the neighboring village of Amiret El Fhoul, from which they had been abducted. They were now nearly back at the beach, walking alongside the exhausted horses, taking advantage of the slowness of the pace to learn about each other. 

“So… we don’t even grow old?” Nicolò asked quietly, completely bewildered by this information. 

“Well, our bodies don’t,” Andromache answered. She spoke next in Greek directly to Quynh, squinting at the water as the group approached the shore. “Which one is ours?”

“This one, Andromache,” Quynh answered patiently. She waded up to her hips and lifted a rope out of the water, pulling a small tender boat back to the beach. 

“Where are we going?” Yusuf asked, also in Greek. He removed the harness from the horses to set them free as well, while Nicolò helped Quynh drag the dinghy to the sand. 

“Crete,” Andromache answered him, looking him over with a pleasantly surprised smile. “You speak Greek?” 

“We do,” Yusuf confirmed, catching Nicolò’s disquieted glance his way. “Why Crete?”

“Because she promised me a break,” Quynh said, stepping into the boat as Andromache held it still, looking her pointedly in the eye, “four years ago!”

“We’re going, Quynh!” 

Yusuf and Nicolò stepped in next. Andromache pulled the anchor into the tender and then pushed it out into the water before climbing in as well.

It was a tight fit with four of them. Yusuf and Nicolò sat shoulder to shoulder across from the two women who were rowing out to the larger vessel awaiting them offshore. Nicolò cast a concerned look at Yusuf for possibly the fiftieth time since his dramatic resurrection, to which Yusuf once again gave him a reassuring nod that he was still all right. This time he even added a gentle pat on the knee for good measure. 

“How did you two begin?” Quynh asked curiously.

The two men exchanged another quick glance before looking back at Quynh. 

“We were at war with each other,” Yusuf explained.

“I am an invader,” Nicolò amended, darkly.

“ _Was_ ,” Yusuf maintained. 

“Sure,” Quynh nodded. 

Both men looked quickly her way, interrupting their argument. 

“We kind of guessed that much,” Andromache admitted to them. “Between what we saw in our dreams and… well, who you are.”

“How did you come to be together?” Quynh asked in clarification. 

“Well, after killing each other a handful of times only to face each other again, it started to seem pointless so we decided to work together”

“Yes but,” Quynh interjected Yusuf again... She paused and smiled, clearly thinking they were being coy. “What I mean is, how did you discover each other? When did you first…?”

“Quynh…” Andromache said quietly. Her companion looked right at her, to which she replied with a gentle shake of the head. 

They spoke to each other quickly in a language neither man could understand, nor recognize. Yusuf guessed it might have been Quynh’s native tongue. He cast another quick glance to Nicolò who was watching the women thoughtfully. 

It was Andromache who spoke to them next. 

“That’s a nice story,” she said with a gentle smile. “Enemies becoming friends.”

Quynh muttered something under her breath, but once again they could not translate it. 

“Where are you from, Quynh?” Yusuf asked curiously, glad to steer the conversation away from the undefined nature of his and a Nicolò’s relationship. She looked quickly at him and then at Andromache, who raised her eyebrows meaningfully to the woman, communicating for her to let it go.

“It was called Xích Quy… once,” she answered after a pause. “Then Van Lang. Next Au Lac. I think now they call it Tsiompa. Different kings called it different names, but the people are its heart, and they have kept it true.”

She gazed out at the water, past Nicolò and Yusuf. 

“We go back every once in a while,” she continued. “Andromache loves it there.”

“It’s one of the most beautiful places I’ve seen,” the other woman agreed. “And I’ve seen many.”

“I’d be delighted to see it someday,” Yusuf said to them both. Nicolò quirked an eyebrow at him curiously.

“We’ll have to plan on it,” Andromache responded to him, but her eyes were watching the man next to him. “You’re very quiet over there Nicolò. Everything all right?” 

“Yes,” he answered simply. Yusuf agreed that Nicolò had been exceptionally quiet most of the evening, even for him. He thought he had a feeling as to why. 

“He doesn’t like to speak Greek,” Yusuf put forth. Nicolò held his palms out in question. 

“Why not?” Quynh asked. She was standing now, as they had reached the larger ship, and she was reaching for the boarding ladder that hung down from the deck.

“He thinks I think his accent makes him sound childish,” Yusuf said. 

“That is not… I do not think that.” Nicolò argued, suddenly looking worried. “Do you?”

“No.” Yusuf said reassuringly. 

In truth, Nicolò’s meditation was simply his reaction to traumatizing events of the evening, combined with a little bit of entertained fascination at Andromache’s and Quynh’s dynamic. Not to mention having to process the idea that he was immortal. 

“You’re doing fine; you’re still learning,” Andromache affirmed to him. “Practice is how we get better.” 

She started climbing the rope, and Nicolò followed. Yusuf half expected an affronted look his way, but one did not come. When he stepped forward to grab the rope, Quynh spoke quietly to him.

“It _is_ quite precious,” she said. Yusuf suppressed a small smile, but she caught it anyway. 

It was not a large ship. Andromache called it a holk and explained that even though it traditionally called for a crew of four or five, she and Quynh had gotten incredibly proficient at managing it on their own. They insisted, therefore, that Yusuf and Nicolò get some sleep. 

They led them to the cabin, where Andromache lit a lantern for them. It illuminated a small, but dry and comfortable bedroom.

“But is this not where you sleep?” Nicolò asked them with regard for their slumber as well.

“We won’t need to rest for a while,” Andromache explained, and spoke next directly to Quynh. “The wind is strong. We should take advantage of that.” 

Quynh nodded.

“Besides, we sleep under the stars most nights,” she added. “Don’t worry about us.”

The two men thanked them for all of their assistance since this long night had begun, and the women graciously bid them a peaceful and restorative night’s sleep. Walking the deck of the holk, Quynh slipped into her native language to conspire with Andromache.

“ _How long do you think before they figure it out?”_ She asked with a smile.

“ _As long as they need,_ ” Andromache answered in a slightly reproachful tone. “ _Don’t push_.”

“ _Fifty Hyperpyron says they don’t last another week_.” 

“ _That’s a sucker bet._ ”

Inside the cabin Yusuf carefully removed the bloodied farmla from his chest and rolled out his achy neck and shoulders. Nicolò eyed the single bed as though he thought it might give birth to a crocodile. Yusuf followed his gaze.

“Take it,” he said.

“No,” Nicolò declined gratefully stepping back and scanning the room for other options.

“It’s fine, take it,” Yusuf insisted more firmly.

“No, this…” Nicolò spotted a cozy enough looking corner where he could rest against a sack of grain, “this will work over here.”

“I really don’t mind,” Yusuf tried once more, frowning.

“No, you should take the bed,” Nicolò turned back to him and nodded. “You’re injured.”

“No, I’m not.” Yusuf smiled, almost laughed. He could not stay injured. The ultimate mutilation he’d endured and recovered from this evening had proven that once and for all. 

“You are most recently injured,” Nicolò explained his meaning. “You need to rest well. Don’t tell me you don’t; I know how it wears.”

Yusuf was moved to silence by Nicolò’s compassion. He kept a steady gaze on the man as he removed the vest from his own torso, better revealing the large slice through the sadra he wore underneath, outlined in red. Nicolò had sustained plenty this evening as well. 

“Thank you, Nicolò.” Yusuf said quietly with deep humility. He sat himself down on the bed and kicked off his shoes while Nicolò crouched down to the floor in the corner, stretching his legs out in front of him. 

“We made it a long time without either of us getting killed,” Yusuf reflected. He handed Nicolò one of the pillows from the bed. “We make a good team.”

Nicolò smiled lightly reaching out for the pillow and nodding in gratitude. 

“I imagine, we will be even stronger with those two,” he said, placing the pillow behind his head. He folded his arms across his chest. “They are …formidable?”

Yusuf looked quickly at Nicolò, as he lay himself down. He was struck by how much Nicolò _had_ learned in such a short amount of time. 

“Formidable, yes.”

“Do you think they have really lived as long as they say?” Nicolò asked. 

Yusuf considered this for a moment.

“It’s difficult to comprehend,” he said slowly, “but with what’s happened to us, it certainly feels possible.”

Nicolò was quiet for a few minutes while Yusuf wiggled in the bed trying to get comfortable. He found this difficult, with the sensation of what had been done to him so fresh in his memory. 

“I think they are more than friends,” Nicolò spoke into the center of the room. 

Yusuf looked Nicolò over with careful consideration before responding.

“Could be,” he said. “They’ve been together a long time. What do you think of that?”

“I think… they seem to love each other very much,” Nicolò said simply. “I think they are lucky to have each other.”

“I assumed you’d frown on it,” Yusuf admitted.

“Why?” Nicolò looked at him sharply. “I have seen all kinds of love. And all kinds of lust. Even in my order there were many who took lovers, some with women, some with men.”

This information surprised Yusuf. He had not considered that Nicolò would be as nonchalant about love between two women or love between two men. Deep inside of him, something was ignited, something that felt like hope. 

“They gave into temptation,” Nicolò continued, “but it is _all_ sin. No _one_ is worse than another.”

The hope flickered slightly.

“All sex is sin?”

“No,” Nicolò said thoughtfully. “But…it is if you’ve taken a vow of chastity.”

The hope dimmed. 

“And love?” Yusuf asked quietly. “What about that?”

“I believe… love can never be sin.” 

But it was still alive. 

Nicolò blew out the flame in the lantern and let his head drop to his chest, closing his eyes. Yusuf followed Nicolò’s lead and turned himself onto his side in one last attempt to find a comfortable position. He had finally found one, facing his Nicolò. He could just see the outline of his form in what little bit of moonlight shone through the porthole. 

“I’m sorry,” Yusuf spoke gently and suddenly into the darkness. 

Nicolò said nothing, but Yusuf could see the silhouette of his head turn slightly toward him. 

“For teasing you,” he explained, “about the Greek.”

“Oh,” Nicolò responded. He paused a beat before tucking his chin down again. “Yes, alright, I forgive you.”

Yusuf smiled. Nicolò was a consistent comfort to him. He kept reliving the moment he came back to life, and the image of Nicolò’s glistening eyes searching his own. He kept envisioning the concerned glances Nicolò had cast his way all night. Kept recalling how it felt to lean into him as Nicolò propped him up with his strong shoulders. He was overcome with love for the man. 

And he could not have said it any better. This love could never be sin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I imagine Quynh’s reaction to learning that Nicky and Joe are presently unrequited as going something like, “are they for real?” 
> 
> Anyway, this conversation between Nicky and Joe at the end is one of my OG conversations from when I first started working on this fic... though it has evolved a bit since I started posting. It feels very satisfying to finally be sharing this chapter. 
> 
> Though... I know what you’re all really waiting for and I promise you, it’s coming so soon! 
> 
> I can’t thank you all enough for the kudos and comments (even and especially the ones with constructive feedback). My heart is overjoyed that people are liking this take on the immortal husbands. I know there are so many good ones out there, so really, truly THANK YOU.


	17. Change

_Yusuf awoke to find his head was not resting on his pillow. He was in the bed, but the feeling beneath his cheek seemed firmer, warmer, more consoling than a pillow should be. He took in a breath of a familiar scent, one he equated with moments when he was in close range of Nicolò. It was the smell of a man. The smell of a particular man. He turned his head, peering upward to find Nicolò’s eyes gazing down at him. They glistened with affection… and with something else. He could feel the fingers dancing through the tangles of his curls._

_“Come back,” Nicolo was saying, his voice pained._

_“I’m here,” Yusuf tried to say, but no sound came out._

_“Come back to me,” he said again… and then, “wake up.”_

“WAKE UP!” 

He opened his eyes truly this time to the loud knocking on the door. He was in the bed, but he was alone. A quick glance to side found Nicolò in the same spot he’d been when they retired for the night. He was rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and squinting at the door. A moment passed before it creaked open and Andromache’s head peeked through.

“Hey fellas,” she said gently. “Sorry to wake you, but we’ve docked. And it’s nearly noon.”

Quynh’s head appeared beside Andromache’s.

“Seriously, how are you still sleeping through this?” She asked.

As if right on cue, Nicolò involuntarily reached his left arm out to brace his body against the bulkhead, as the boat listed to the side. Across the small room, Yusuf was nearly pitched from the bed, but caught himself as well. 

“Pretty nasty squall out there,” Andromache explained. “Come on, we got a villa in town.”

Two men followed two women through a sheet of rain and wind along the dock and through the streets of a quaint little city. The buildings they passed were an interesting amalgam of architectural styles. Some of them, Nicolò thought, resembled those of Madhia, with impressive pillars and archways painted in brightly colored geometric designs. Some, with their solid pastels, were more like what he remembered from home. There were ancient stone temples, as well as modern chapels and mosques. 

Naturally, the rain kept most of the town’s people off the streets, but Nicolò was struck by the fact that the people he did see, like in Alexandria, seemed to come from many lands and many creeds. The shops they passed advertised everything from eastern silks, to Kosher meats, to Spanish leathers. As they moved down one narrow alley, he noted an establishment that appeared to be a brothel. Three women, two with long flowing dark hair cascading along umber skin and one fire-haired northerner, stood outside under an awning, eyeing them as they passed. They were non-discriminate in whose attention they attempted to gain, but tried the slightest bit harder for Yusuf’s. What struck Nicolò the most, however, was the odd sight of two armed soldiers walking the streets, their shields bearing the red flag of the Normans.

“This is Crete?” He asked warily, as Andromache led them past the side of a small inn, behind which sat several modest villas facing a small beach on a cove.

“No,” she replied, proceeding down a narrow walkway to one of the small buildings. “We didn’t make it as far as Crete before the storm forced us in to land.”

She turned the key in the latch and pushed the heavy door open.

“This is Malta,” she explained, as the three of them walked through. 

Inside, Quynh found a lantern and worked quickly to light it, Yusuf ran his hand quickly through his hair to shake out the rain. Nicolò stood in the middle of the room dripping from head to toe, mind fixed on the soldiers he saw in the street.

“There are Normans here,” he said seriously. 

“Yeah,” Andromache said as she cracked opened the shutters on the windows to let in some light. “They’ve occupied this island for the last ten years, but they don’t really do much. Not since the first raid. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“The last time someone told me not to worry about military men, very bad things happened,” Nicolò said darkly. Yusuf’s attention was now on the man, but he did not say anything. He had been the one to tell him not to worry, after all. 

“Yeah, we saw that in our dreams, actually,” Quynh explained, she looked pointedly at both men. “Maybe we ought to stay out of their way while we’re here.”

“We will stay out of anyone’s way when they are not threatening to rape innocent women,” Nicolò answered defensively. _Or other equally horrible things for that matter,_ he thought _._ Quynh smirked at Nicolò and then looked at Yusuf. Yusuf sighed.

“They’re Normans,” Andromache said simply. “All they do is drink.” 

“And that’s all we plan to do as well,” Quynh said brightly. She stepped closer to Yusuf and Nicolò, putting a hand to each man’s shoulder. “But make no mistake, if for some reason they start to make trouble for us or any of the locals, we won’t stand idly by. And they are absolutely no match for us, so worry not.”

She tapped Nicolò’s nose gently, confirming that they knew exactly what happened that night in the caravansary. 

Nicolò cast a weary eye at Yusuf. He was not concerned about himself in this situation. And he did not think he could take another act of violence toward Yusuf so soon after what he had endured in Mahdia. Yusuf gave him a reassuring wink. 

“It’s all right,” he said. “Everything is going to be all right.” 

As if on cue, as if God Himself was supporting Yusuf’s affirmation, right at that moment, the foursome took note that the rain outside had stopped and the wind was dying down. Quynh opened the shutters up completely to see the sun peeking out through the scattering clouds above. She and Andromache exchanged a curious look to which Quynh responded quickly and firmly, “No, I’m going to the market for some wine. We’re staying put.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A short while later, after they’d washed and changed into some fresh clothes, Yusuf, who had found a fishing net in the kitchen, took a walk down to the cove to try his luck with Maltese fish. Nicolò sat in a wooden chair, just outside the villa, reading from one of the books he found inside, looking out to the water every once in a while. 

“ _Ciau, Nicolò,_ ” a voice said gently from behind him. When he turned, he saw Andromache holding two goblets of wine.

“ _Ciau_ ,” he answered, returning the Ligurian she spoke. He gave her a soft smile. 

“ _Do you partake_?” She asked, extending one of the goblets out to him in offering. He nodded and took the cup from her. When he turned back to the water, he saw Quynh had joined Yusuf there. They were chatting, making gestures at the net, and then at the water. Nicolò guessed they were exchanging their own unique cultural methods of fishing and discussing what catches they might find in this place. 

He tapped his foot a few times, letting out a sigh. 

He wished he could rid himself of this feeling that something momentous, something of great importance was coming for them. He couldn’t decide if it would be good or bad. But not knowing left him disquieted. So many bad things had happened. One incredibly so, very recently. It was difficult to accept that they were suddenly safe, that his guard could be let down so abruptly, after so many months of apprehension.

“ _This is difficult for you, isn’t it_?” Andromache asked, taking a sip of her wine.

“ _What is difficult for me?_ ”

“ _Relaxing_ ,” she replied. “ _Being idle. I’m the same way_.”

Nicolò said nothing. Being idle wasn’t entirely the source of his discomfort, though he supposed if he had something concrete to do, it might lessen his feelings of unease. 

“ _Quynh makes sure we stop to rest in a place like this every now and then_ ,” Andromache explained. “ _She says its for her, but then she takes over everything and doesn’t let me do a thing. Drives me crazy.”_

Nicolò shrugged.

“ _Yusuf is a much better fisherman than I am,_ ” he said.

“ _And from here you can keep a close eye on him_ ,” Andromache suggested, knowingly. 

He turned to look at the woman. She was far too wise, and he suspected she might be a little bit trouble for them. Her words, however, seemed well intentioned, he thought. He turned back to the sea and looked right at Yusuf. He was smiling and making a large gesture with his arms. Quynh laughed. Then he brought his hand absentmindedly to his neck, as if scratching a strange itch. It was not the first time Nicolò had seen him do this. 

“ _He keeps grasping for his neck_ ,” Nicolò said simply.

“ _Yes, I’ve noticed that too_ ,” Andromache replied. She paused to take a few sips of her wine, while Nicolò kept his eyes planted on the other man. 

“ _I’ve suffered some fairly gruesome deaths_ ,” she continued, “ _which Quynh has described to me, and which I have no memory of.”_

Nicolò turned to her. She was watching the two in the water now too. She gave him a moment to ponder over that before turning back to to him.

“ _I think our minds have a way of protecting us sometimes._ ” She had another drink before continuing. “ _I know the things we’re capable of enduring can be pretty traumatic, but it’s been our experience that the one who suffers more is the one who watches.”_

Nicolò kept his eyes on her. His thoughts ran deep, but he still sensed that Andromache could read them like a book. 

“ _It helps to talk about it_ ,” she said kindly. “ _It’s why we’re not alone, you know?_ ”

“ _Yes_ ,” was all Nicolò could think to say in response. He took another sip of wine before adding, “ _This is very good._ ” 

“ _I know,_ ” she nodded having another sip herself. 

Later that evening, the four of them sat down and shared a meal together at the small table in the villa. Quynh had purchased some fresh vegetables and grains, and then together she and Yusuf caught a nice piece of bass. Nicolò helped her cook the meal. True to her word, Andromache was not allowed to assist in anything, so she spent most of the afternoon working her way through a bottle of wine. 

It was a joyous scene. Yusuf had not felt as happy and at peace since before he and Nicolò had left Damietta, and even there they had to be careful to keep their gift hidden. Here they had no secrets, none except the obvious one, that is. And even that one secret in this moment felt less like a lie than it ever had before. He hid nothing of the way he felt. The truth was he would be happy to love this man as family for the rest of his long existence, and right now, family was exactly what they were. 

They swapped stories with each other. Andromache and Quynh having countless more than them, naturally, but Yusuf told one they could not match. Nicolò’s beautiful face turned red with chagrin while Yusuf playfully recounted the tail of his late night experiments with dismemberment in their early days. There was no ill regard in his expression though. He was laughing just as hard as the women were.   
  
“And I woke up to this blood curdling scream,” Yusuf explained in dramatic storytelling. “He sounded like a hyena.” 

Nicolò rubbed his eyes bashfully.

“I’ve had hands cut off before,” Quynh admitted, “but I never did it myself.”

“It was only a finger,” Nicolò maintained.

“ _Majnun_ ,” Yusuf muttered playfully under his breath. He gave Nicolò an affectionate wink. 

“I am never going to live that down,” he responded. 

“No,” Yusuf said.

“No,” Quynh agreed.

“No,” Andromache added for good measure.

“It was only a finger,” Nicolò repeated more defensively. 

He and Yusuf caught each other’s gaze again, and they could each tell the other was thinking how much worse dismemberment could be. That they’d both suffered worse. One much more so than the other  
  
“More wine for anyone?” Andromache asked, sensing and breaking the tension. 

“Thank you, my heart,” Quynh answered, holding her cup aloft. 

“No thank you,” Nicolò declined. “It was an excellent meal, Quynh.”

“Part in thanks to both of you!” She replied with a grin.

“I will clean up,” Nicolò said as he stood, lifting his and Quynh’s plates from the table. 

“I will help,” Yusuf stood, holding his own plate as well. 

“I am perfectly capable of cleaning dishes on my own,” Nicolò said firmly, but kindly. He reached for Andromache’s plate and then held his hand out for Yusuf’s.

“Ooh,” Quynh said playfully. “I like having two men around battling for the honor of cleaning up after me.”

“I offer to clean up all the time,” the other woman argued. 

“Shush, Andromache.”

Yusuf gave in and handed the dish to Nicolò, who disappeared into the kitchen. When he finished, and returned to the dining table, he found only Quynh and Andromache, sitting closely, heads nearly touching, grinning at each other across the tops of their wine glasses. Neither looked away from one another, but sensing his presence, and the question that was likely on his mind, Quynh said only, “He’s outside.” 

Nicolò found him out back, standing near the same chairs he and Andromache had sat in earlier that afternoon. He leaned into trunk of the great carob tree they sat under. He was facing the water, gazing out at the crescent moon rising up over the horizon. 

“Beautiful evening,” he said without turning. 

Nicolò stepped forward and stood next to him, casting his own eyes to the moon as well. He sensed Yusuf scratching at his neck again, and turned to watch him. Yusuf smiled lightly, looking down at his hands. 

“If I asked you to stop worrying about me, would it make any difference?” He asked. 

Nicolò looked back out at the water. 

“I am trying,” he admitted. 

Yusuf nodded and took a seat in one of the chairs. Nicolò picked up a stone from the ground and tossed it into the water, watching it skip along the surface two, three, four times. Yusuf smiled as Nicolò took a seat beside him. 

“Do you remember it?” Nicolò asked.

Yusuf rubbed his temple lightly.

“Only very small bits,” he responded. “I remember a sword swinging. After that things got hazy.”

Nicolò frowned, keeping his eyes locked on the sand in front of him. Yusuf continued.

“What I remember clearest of all is waking up and seeing you,” he said. Nicolò shifted his gaze back to Yusuf, whose eyes were locked firmly, and assuringly on his. “I had… some trouble breathing, but I was not afraid.”

“I was,” Nicolò answered quietly.

“I know.”

Yusuf brought his hand to his neck and rubbed it freely this time. 

“It was a strange sensation when I woke up, I’ll admit that,” he said, “but I promise you I am not reliving the moment of my death. Not the way you are.”

“It’s the long moments in between that won’t leave me,” Nicolò attested. He closed his eyes and let out a great heave of a sigh. “I thought… I’d lost you.”

He felt a hand resting on his own, and opened his eyes to see their hands joined together. Then the two men’s eyes met again.

“That can’t happen, Nicolò,” Yusuf reminded him, and offered a light smile. “I think we’re going to be stuck together for a very long time, the two of us.”

He gave Nicolò’s hand a couple light pats. Nicolo nodded and smiled lightly to himself. It was true, it seemed an entirely ridiculous thing to worry about considering what they knew they could survive. But there was also a lot of truth in what Andromache had said, how much heartbreak it involved to watch the person you love die in front of you, over and over again. Not to mention how it might feel someday for Yusuf to give his heart over to another person. They had found two more immortals. How many more could there be out there? 

“The four of us,” he reminded the man, who was reaching down to the sand on the other side of the chair.

“The four of us, yes.” Yusuf agreed, as he sat himself back upright, procuring a half full bottle of wine and two glasses. 

“I thought you don’t drink wine,” Nicolò questioned him as he poured a bit in each glass. 

Yusuf scrunched his face, the way he did whenever a situation bore nuance. 

“Very special occasions only,” he said, handing a glass to Nicolò.

“What’s the special occasion?” Nicolò asked curiously, resting his glass on the arm of his chair. He had had more than enough wine between the afternoon with Andromache and then at dinner. It was something he was so used to back at home, it took quite a bit for him to feel impaired, but he found that this particular vintage had made him sleepy. He did not want to feel sleepy while he spent time with Yusuf. 

“We have found them,” Yusuf said, taking a sip.

“They found us,” Nicolò corrected him. 

“Yes,” Yusuf agreed. He tilted his wine glass this way and that, watching the contents inside swirl like a cyclone. “And have you noticed? The dreams have stopped.”

“Yes,” Nicolò nodded. Neither man mentioned that it meant their dreams were more available for each other now.

“I think that means we are where we’re meant to be,” Yusuf said, continuing to swirl his glass, eyes on the surf.

“Yes…”

“You’re definitely right about the two of them, by the way,” Yusuf grinned. Nicolò nodded briefly, and then squinted slightly.

“Actually, I could not have been more wrong,” he admitted. 

“What do you mean by that?” Yusuf asked curiously.

Nicolò sighed. He was slightly embarrassed to admit it. 

“When we left Damietta,” he started, looking at Yusuf sheepishly, “I believed we were setting out to find your soulmate.”

“You did?” Yusuf grinned.

“Yes,” Nicolò furrowed his brow.

“And you thought either Quynh or Andromache would be that soulmate?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then you’re right,” Yusuf laughed, “you could not have been more wrong.”

They both chuckled lightly. 

“Well... I am sure you will find a woman to make you happy.” Nicolò said in a reassuring tone Yusuf could not make sense of. He looked at the man quizzically as he carried on. “Maybe even here, now that we are safe, or as safe as we can be. With our new friends, I wager that is fairly safe.”

He had never heard him yammer on like this before. 

“Why do you think I must find a woman to make me happy?” Yusuf asked, chuckling again. 

Nicolò shrugged. 

“Women… are usually drawn to you,” he said as if that explained it all. His voice lowered when he spoke again. “And you seem to be drawn to them too…”

“I do?”

“Are you not?” Nicolò was looking at him expectantly now. The conversation had taken a dramatic turn and Yusuf chose his next words very carefully. He had always been guarded about this subject with Nicolò and he felt suddenly regretful of this. Why had he never trusted him before? 

“I… have been drawn to both men and women,” he said plainly. 

Nicolò kept his eyes planted firmly at Yusuf, but he said nothing. This wasn’t the whole truth, and there was no point in holding back now.

“Though… I must admit the pull has always been stronger toward men.”

Nicolò’s expression was difficult to read. Surprise, that was sure, but underneath there was something else. Was it fear?

“Does that disconcert you?” Yusuf asked quietly. 

“No.” When he spoke, it was only a whisper.

Disconcerted was not what he was feeling. Confounded? Yes. Unanchored? Definitely. Hopeful? A bit.

But petrified. That what was overwhelmingly dominating Nicolò’s mind at that very moment. He needed to move. He needed to stop staring. He needed to say something.

But for the moment all he could do was swallow with effort. Baby steps. In the next instant he jumped from his seat and stepped a few paces away, rubbing his chin, staring out at the sea. His mind raced.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Yusuf asked him nervously. He stood from his chair as well and approached Nicolò with caution. He placed himself in front of him, searching his face for any idea of what the man was thinking. “Nicolò what?”

“It is… too important,” Nicolò said. He was was actually trembling. “Speaking it will change everything.”

_Speak then, _Yusuf was screaming inside, though his voice would not work. He watched Nicolò expectantly, the same trepidation he felt mirrored in Nicolò’s eyes.__

Nicolò hesitated. This was it, the monumental life-altering moment he had sensed was coming. It was not entirely what he feared, but he still had no way of knowing if the change would be for the better or for the worse. Still… there could surely be no turning back. 

__

“I have never been drawn to anyone the way I am drawn to you.” 

__

He remained as still as he could. Eyes searching those of Yusuf, who stood just as unmoving. 

__

“Forgive me,” he said, stepping back, “that was foolish.”

__

Before he could turn away, his hand was grasped by another, and Yusuf was pulling him back. 

__

“Nicolo…” he said quietly. They stared at each other for another moment while Yusuf found his voice.

__

“Y… you…” he stammered. Of all the moments, why were the words evading him now? Nicolò had been so brave to confess his feelings. He had made himself so vulnerable. When he looked at the man he could see it in his eyes. He was adrift, and Yusuf wanted desperately to be his lifeline. 

__

“You surprise me every moment I know you,” he said finally.

__

“But…?”

__

“But nothing.” He reached for Nicolo’s other hand and gripped them both tightly. “I live for each new second. You are like magic to me, not terrifying, but thrilling.”

__

He let out a breath, and Nicolò did too. They both smiled lightly, and Yusuf lifted their joined hands to his chest and pressed them against his heart. 

__

“My heart feels tethered to you, my soul tethered to yours.” 

__

Nicolò blinked a few times, and when he spoke he sounded almost regretful.

__

“You always speak like a poet,” he said in awe.

__

Yusuf beamed at him.

__

“I feel as though I could write a thousand songs and a thousand poems to try to convey what you are to me, and the words would fail me every time.”

__

Nicolo chuckled, imagining he would never be able to say anything half as beautiful.

__

“No,” he shook his head. “They would not.”

__

His eyes met Yusuf’s. For the first time, he freely drank them in. He lost himself in the deep brown and saw clearly the flecks of gold. Around them the crinkles he had come to love so long ago signified his pure joy. He followed the freckles on his cheeks and his nose, down to his mouth which rested open slightly in a bated smile. He leaned into Yusuf’s hand, which had found its way to Nicolò’s cheek.

__

“Are you going to kiss me?” He asked him. 

__

Yusuf laughed lightly. In truth, he was planning on letting Nicolò kiss him first. But on second thought, he decided Nicolò had done enough of the heavy lifting for the moment. 

__

“Yes, Nicolò.”

__

And he did. 

__

And two men who met as enemies, and somehow became friends, were finally so much more than that, losing themselves in one another’s arms and in one another’s mouths, while the waves crashed to the shore, and the moon shone above, and two glasses of wine sat abandoned nearby.   


__

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am aware of Greg Rucka’s affirmation that Nicky and Joe are gay. The simple truth is I didn’t read this until after I started writing this story, or even after I started posting it. I’m certainly here for them being strictly gay, but I played around with what that might have meant or even looked like back in the time of them first meeting. I was never in any way trying to make a statement that Joe should be bi or Nicky should be demi... and honestly here, I’m in no way denying that they could have been. I’m definitely not an expert on the full spectrum of possible sexualities, but it seems to me to be something that can be quite unique for a lot of people, not always fitting neatly into one box. (If you can’t tell by my lack of explicit sex on the page, I lean slightly ace myself... but it’s not entirely that simple either, and I’m definitely not aro and am definitely still completely captivated by this couple). So it’s my sincerest hope that the way I chose to portray them doesn’t offend anyone. 
> 
> As always, thank you for the comments and kudos. I am an amateur writer at best, who’s only ever written for myself, coming out of seven year hiatus. I know I’m rusty. But it’s been so therapeutic to write this tale, and I’m just happy to have even one fan. 
> 
> Also, we’re not quite finished, in case anyone was worried about that.


	18. Morning

Yusuf al Kaysani loves to watch the sun rise. Though he despises the part when he has to extract himself from the warmth and comfort of his bed, if he can successfully suffer through that terrible bit of it, there are few experiences more dear to him. Granted a sunset is beautiful too, the way the clouds and the light collide in just the right way to produce the gentlest hues of coral and mauve. But there was something about the sunrise that had always captivated him even more. Perhaps it was the drama of vibrant orange meeting near pitch black. Or maybe it was the way the mist danced along the horizon like ghosts from the past welcoming the living to a new day. And it certainly didn’t hurt that each morning he was lucky enough to catch one, he was struck with a burst of nostalgia for his youth. His true youth. The days when he woke with the sun, begrudgingly so, to help his father deliver fish to the market. They were simple times. And he would be hard pressed to look back on them and recall being anything but happy. Sleepy, but happy.

The morning after his rendezvous with Nicolò felt a lot like those times. It was the best of both worlds. He got to see the sunrise out the window from the comfort of the bed they shared. And best of all, Nicolò was here with him.

He sat upright against the bedpost, his left leg curled into his chest supporting his notepad while he sketched. His right leg stretched in front of him, toes kissing those of Nicolò, who lay sprawled on his stomach diagonally beside him. He paused now and then to sneak a glance at the horizon, but he was finding that even the glorious sunrise could not keep his eyes away from his muse for very long. He was putting the finishing touches on his third sketch of the morning when Nicolò started to stir. 

His head lifted slightly, and two eyes the color of the sea peeked up at him through thick strands of overgrown sandy colored hair. He quirked his lips into an impossibly endearing smile, part bashful, part victorious, entirely seductive. Yusuf was bewitched, and quite willingly so. 

“ _Bungiurnu_ ,” Yusuf offered, completely failing to stifle a coy smile himself. 

“ _Sabah alhkyr._ ” Quite beyond his control, Yusuf’s eyes clapped shut as he sharply inhaled. The scent of his sun-kissed salty skin, the green of his eyes, melting to blue, the sound of Arabic gliding across his tongue in the accent that brought to mind the rhythm of a boat dancing along the waves. It was all too much to take in at once. He had to disable one of his senses or he might just die right here in this bed. 

“How are you feeling?” Nicolò asked him, summoning the return of his gaze. Yusuf smiled playfully at him.

“Truthfully… a bit sore,” Yusuf responded. Nicolò returned the smirk, but blushed all the same. “But in a good way.”

“Good.” Nicolò buried his face into the sheets for a moment. _Me too_ , it occurred to him as his smirk grew into an outright smile. He turned his head to kiss Yusuf’s hip. “Are you making more faceless drawings of me?”

Yusuf stole a glance at his sketchbook momentarily before shifting his eyes back to him. He spoke to the mop on top of Nicolò’s head. 

“Would you like to see?”

Nicolo lifted his head again, his expression communicating humble curiosity. Yusuf handed the book to his bedfellow, who propped himself up on his elbows to browse the pages of Yusuf’s oft concealed art. They were filled edge to edge with sketches of Nicolò, face and all. Nicolò perched on a rock, holding his crossbow. Nicolò coiling the rope of an anchor around his arm. Nicolò reading from a book. Nicolò sleeping. Nicolò’s hands. Nicolò’s profile complete with prominent tense jaw and mole on his cheek. Nicolo’s eyes, hair falling across. Nicolò’s eyes. 

Yusuf rubbed his ear, nervously watching as Nicolò turned page after page. He felt naked in a way far exceeding any point from the previous evening. He saw Nicolò cover his mouth thoughtfully. He guessed it must have been a similar feeling for him. 

“I thought this was forbidden,” Nicolò said quietly. 

Yusuf waved his hand in the air as if to imply forbidden was a bit strong a word.

“I could never create something as beautiful as you are anyway,” he said.

Nicolò looked up at him blinking, and quirking a resentful sneer his way. He was trapped. If he answered in modesty denying the existence of said beauty, as was his instinct to do, then he would be implying that Yusuf’s drawings were anything less than beautiful. And they were stunning. 

“I am touched,” he responded humbly.

“I could touch you some more if you like.” Yusuf leaned over him and rested his chin against the center of his shoulder blades. The muscles in Nicolò’s back tensed slightly as if to press further into the contact. As he ran his hand along Nicolo’s arm he felt a heel tracing his calf. 

Nicolò kept his eyes on the book though, and continued to flip slowly through its pages. Yusuf watched the back of his head, thoughtfully. 

“Are you worried you have damned me?”

“Are you?” Nicolo asked, tilting his head slightly toward him. 

“No…” Yusuf answered readily. And he wasn’t. Technically what they had done the night before was the more affronting act. That they were not married, that Nicolo was not Muslim, that they were both men. These were all barriers that claimed they should not be together in this way. But to Yusuf they were only conventions he could simply not make sense of. He couldn’t imagine that any Creator would pair with him with a man as… kind and thoughtful and beautiful as Nicolò… and have it not be His will that he love him with every fiber of his being, in every possible expression he knew. That he would be condemned for it was… senseless. Unreasonable. Fallacy. It just didn’t add up. _Love can never be sin._

“But, Nicolò…” There was something gnawing at him all the same. “You break your vows to be with me.”

Underneath him, Nicolò turned his body around so that he faced Yusuf now. His expression was serious. 

“That is only regrettable if it means you believe I would ever break a vow that I make to you.”

Yusuf sat himself back up, and considered Nicolò carefully. It mattered to him more than anything that Nicolò carried no hesitations. He did not think he could handle it if Nicolò would come to regret these acts of love, and turn away from him now that they had come to share so much. But it was more than that.

“I would be eternally regretful if you turned away from Allah for me,” he said quietly. 

“Yusuf… listen to me.” Nicolò said, folding the book in his lap and sitting up now too. He hesitated, the way Yusuf had come to know him to do when he was gathering very important thoughts. Yusuf waited, with loving patience. 

“I have only turned away from the misguided path I was on,” he avowed. His eyes were fixed on Yusuf’s. “I have killed in the name of God… innocent people, because of a lie that I was raised on. A lie driven by blind hatred. A lie perpetuated by people of the Church, people like me.”

His face was pained, and it pained Yusuf to see it there. He knew that Nicolò had done terrible deeds, and that despite keeping it to himself, that he still felt tremendous guilt over those deeds.

“There is nothing on that path for me now. That path is only fear and hate and lust for power. That is not God. God is… love.”

Nicolò shook his head sadly.

“My heart will never fully recover from the remorse I feel for the things I have done. The people I have wronged. A people so loving, and devout, and wonderful… people like you, Yusuf. How could I come to know them so well and believe they are anything less than fellow children of God? I’ve told you I believed one sin is not worse than another, but I think that is not true. I prayed many times for God to guide me on the right path, to help me repent for those misguided beliefs... and those terrible deeds.”

Nicolo’s hand found its way to Yusuf’s and their fingers intertwined. 

“His answer is always and unequivocally the same. His answer is you,” he said. Yusuf felt a fire in his soul. “I never feel closer to Him than I do when I’m with you. Nothing has ever made me more sure of His goodness and wonder than the miracle that you are in my life.” 

Yusuf gazed at the man. He had long known Nicolò’s heart was good. Damaged maybe, but fundamentally good. Nicolò could not have said all of that and mean it, and Yusuf knew he meant it, if that were not so. It filled him with immeasurable hope and gratitude and admiration to know in his bones that that goodness would surely only grow from here. 

“Then this is not sin?” He asked hopefully. His fingers danced along the edges of Nicolò’s.

His lover smiled. 

“There will always be those who say it is,” Nicolò admitted resignedly. “I find it easier to listen to what my heart tells me. I have always believed that voice to be God.”

“And what does your heart tell you?”  
  
It was a rare thing, but Nicolò’s lips quirked momentarily wider, so that a glimpse of his teeth shone through. Then his face became serious again.

“That I am a sinner, Yusuf, but it is not because I love you.”

Equally as rare was the incidence of Yusuf’s cheeks flushing with heat and rouge. 

“You love me?” He smirked sheepishly. 

Nicolò’s eyes widened with sincerity, as if the next thought was the most obvious truth in the world. 

“When I am with you, love is all I am.”

Yusuf couldn’t help it anymore. He could allow no more seconds in which he wasn’t kissing the man to pass unanswered. He brought his hand tenderly to the back of Nicolò’s neck and leaned in. Lips touched, gently and then parted obligingly to allow tongues to meet. He breathed him in, slowly at first then more desperately. Nicolò’s hand pressed lightly to the small of Yusuf’s back and then gradually slid down until he was gripping the curve of his thigh. He curled his leg around Yusuf’s body and pulled himself closer, but Yusuf abruptly jerked his head back. His eyes shifted focus to give Nicolò a tantalizing stare, and he flashed his cosmic grin.

“You can be quite the poet when you want to be as well, Nicolò.”

Gray eyes danced all along Yusuf’s face. 

“No more talking,” was all he said in response. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t have a whole lot to say here, other than... I can’t begin to tell you how much every single comment and kudos and bookmark means to me. Thank you all!


	19. Epilogue

Andromache turned her face up at the sound of footsteps. Nicolò stepped casually out of his bedroom and into the kitchen area where Quynh had left out a pot of tea. 

“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.

“Good morning,” Andromache said in return. She returned to running her wet stone across the blades of her labrys as Quynh approached her from the side and took up a perch on the arm of her chair. Andromache cast her gaze momentarily towards the woman, who cocked an eyebrow at her, and nodded at Nicolò, directing attention down to his right leg. It displayed the bloody remnants of healed up scratches on his calves. Andromache was familiar with scratches like those. She’d been sliced up like that in this villa before, when cutting flowers from the evergreen rose bush for Quynh, the rose bush that sat just beneath Yusuf’s bedroom window. 

Andromache squinted and then looked back at Quynh. She was immediately reminded of their conversation on the holk the other night, after the two men had gone to sleep. 

“ _Fifty Hyperpyron says they don’t last another week,” Quynh had wagered._

_“That’s a sucker bet,” Andromache said in response._

_“Double or nothing they don’t make it three days,” came Quynh’s counter._

_“You’re on.”_

“That could mean anything,” Andromache said quietly to Quynh as Nicolò made his way to join them in the small sitting area. 

“How did you sleep?” Quynh asked brightly. Nicolò smiled at her.

“Very well,” he said. 

“We didn’t hear you boys come in last night,” she said in an airy tone before taking a sip of her tea.

“Oh....” Nicolò said, returning her level of nonchalance. “We were chatting for quite a while. You had gone to bed when we returned.”

 _Chatting_. Yes, he supposed there was some of that going on.

It wasn’t as though they were ashamed of themselves. It was just that it was all so new, and he and Yusuf didn’t think they needed four eyes they barely knew scrutinizing them while they embarked on this new journey together. At least not right away. So after their zesty romp this morning, he had snuck out Yusuf’s window and climbed in through his own, to steer away suspicions. They would tell the women soon. For now, they just wanted to keep each other to themselves. 

A few more minutes passed before Yusuf emerged from his own bedroom. He let out a great yawn as he tried to bid them all a good morning. Nicolò responded casually, not looking his way. 

_Well that was certainly suspicious_ , Andromache thought. She rolled her eyes as she felt Quynh staring her down. Nearly three thousand years old and she still gossiped like a teenager sometimes. She knew Quynh would not give them grief. It wasn’t like that. Andromache was sure she sincerely wished for these two young men to be happy. She’d known her long enough to know how earnest a person she was. Quynh just had a way of coming off more mischievous than anything else. And she rather adored that about her.

“There’s baklava,” Andromache announced to the room, gesturing to the plate that sat on the table in the center of the sitting area.

“For breakfast?” Yusuf asked curiously.

“That’s how we do things when we sojourn,” Quynh explained.

“You say that as though you don’t do exactly what you want all the time,” Andromache reminded her. 

Yusuf made himself a cup of tea and came to joint them all. The two men sat on polar opposite sides of the room. They met eyes for the briefest of moments. 

“And how did _you_ sleep, Yusuf, dear?” Quynh asked. 

“Fine, thank you,” he smiled.

He reached forward to take a piece of baklava and then lifted the plate, reaching it out to Nicolò who took a piece, and then to the two women. Quynh smirked as she took two pieces, one each for her and Andromache. She caught Andromache’s eye, triumphantly when she handed her the sweet. 

She had definitely seen it. And so had Andromache. When Yusuf reached forward, his shirt shifted just enough to reveal the two hickeys on his collarbone. 

Quynh held out her free hand expectantly, and Andromache begrudgingly placed a gold coin in her hand. When Quynh’s look clearly communicated she fully expected ninety-nine more coins, Andromache said to her, “You know where to find me.” 

The two women vowed not to pester their new brothers in arms about their relationship. They trusted it would come out in the open when they were ready for it to be, or when they were caught in the act, whichever situation came first. It just so happened the situation occurred only six hours later. It was the latter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was back and forth for a long time about whether or not this story would have a finite end, or if I would continue it after they finally got together. 
> 
> I decided to end this particular story here, because there seems to be nice closure if I do. BUT I know for a fact that I am not done exploring these two, so I have decided to continue their story in another fiction entitled “Even After a Millenium.”
> 
> You can find the first chapter here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26922568/chapters/65702092
> 
> This story will not have one overarching narrative connecting the chapters, nor connecting the beginning to the end, which instead allows me to check in with these two every now and then to tell you a short moment from their lives through the ages. I don’t know how often I will be inspired to tell a new episode, but what’s great is that when I do, I will probably be able to get it down fairly quickly in comparison to the chapters in this story. 
> 
> I just want to say one more time from the bottom of my heart how grateful I am to everyone who took the time to leave a comment and kudos.
> 
> Also one more thing: I did create a “Kaysanova” playlist on Spotify, that served as a lot of inspiration for writing this story, as I’m sure it will continue to do for my next one. You can find the playlist here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/34YUPsQukI5pAi99OVBcgc?si=Rd6gd_NOQiyLUoiTaIAJ5g


End file.
